Almost everyone loves a compliment. I'm not talking about those insincere platitudes tossed off flippantly, but an honest to goodness, genuine admiring remark.
During my recovery, I've appreciated compliments even more. After months of debilitating aches that left me hobbling and too much time as the hairless wonder, I finally felt good. While I still wasn't entirely satisfied with my appearance, I believed in most ways I did look healthy, attractive and "normal."
In the past couple of months, I've received more than my share of compliments. A few people, who I don't see regularly, actually had an awestruck tone in their voices when they said, "You look good."
One person even said my skin tone was so good, I couldn't possible have cancer anymore.
But I guess looking good, having good colour and a jaunty walk don't prevent tumours from rooting and growing. Thick hair, long eyelashes and sparkling eyes don't prevent cancer from re-gaining its hold.
I ran into someone the weekend before the doctor's appointment where I learned of cancer's return. She complimented me on my hair and how good I looked. When she found out the disease had returned, she was absolutely dumbfounded. "But you looked so good," she replied.
It's impossible to tell who has cancer by looking at a person. Heck, diagnosis would certainly be easier if it were. And ovarian cancer isn't one of those diseases where a person starts to lose weight and waste away. In fact, I'm rapidly growing in size. I guess there's more of me to fight, fight, fight.
I'm reading a book on cancer etiquette and it talks about the comment, you look good. This is a common line that many of those in cancer treatment hear (more than those who have other medical problems). Often those undergoing chemotherapy look pale, pained, are bald and possibly swollen from steroids - and own a mirror - so they know they don't look good.
When someone says, "You look great" the initial reaction is, compared to what? Friends won't usually say, "You look awful," even if it is true.
Bottom line, don't lie. Try things like:
"I like the lipstick you're wearing today."
"I'm glad you're doing so well in spite of the chemo."
" You look better than you did last week."
"You look stronger, how are you dealing with treatment?"
"I like your shirt, it brings colour to your face."
Rosanne Kalik, the author of Cancer Etiquette, and two-time cancer survivor wrote, "What I really want them to say is, 'I know you feel like hell. Please feel free to talk about it with me.'" Being available to hear the good and the bad, is better than any compliment - but especially ones that aren't sincere.
Yes, I still look pretty good, but hopefully I'll start treatment soon and that will change. While, I'm pretty cute as a bald chick, don't compliment me unless you really mean it. It's okay, I can take it.
Tina
Monday, June 7, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
The rapidly expanding Tina
I'm sad and frustrated today because I'm getting more and more uncomfortable, and there's nothing I can do about it.
If I felt sick because I ate too much, I could abstain from food and feel better. If I felt fat, I could diet. If I were hungover, I could drink water, pop a Tylenol and wait it out. If I hurt myself, I could ice the affected area, take it easy and the injury would get better.
But I'm filling full of ascities (fluid in my abdominal cavity), which is making me very uncomfortable, causing pain in my back and ribs, and decreasing my lung capacity. Short of taking a trip to Emergency or the cancer clinic to get my abdomen drained, all I can do it sit back and watch my body expand. Every once in a while, a tumour or the ascities will hit a nerve and make pain shoot down my legs or in my abdomen.
Diane, in true spa style, gave me a massage last night. She poured oil on my poor, aching body and found a few wicked knots on which to work. When I complained my lower back hurt, she went to work on relieving some of their tightness. I'm sure it's from carrying around all that extra fluid. The discomfort and my size is similar to being pregnant, without the benefit of a baby at the end.
It was good to be at the spa and hang around with Diane and Pete this weekend. They reinforced that I only have to be me with them, and don't have to put on a brave face. They're happy having sad Tina, angry Tina, quiet Tina, sore Tina, happy Tina or warrior Tina.
I was sad this weekend. This is the first time in ages where I didn't stop for a moment while in Port Franks with an excited, gleeful feeling and say, "Wow, I'm really happy." I know I'll get there again, but it feels so damn unfair right now.
I'm not quite at warrior Tina yet, either. Maybe that state of being will change when I have some timelines. I STILL haven't heard from the doctor's office in Hamilton for my consultation about the clinical trial. Let's get on with it. The sooner I can meet with the doc, the sooner we can start blasting these damn cancer cells. Once that happens, the fluid will also dissipate. Maybe with dates and an action plan, my fighting spirit will re-emerge.
I also feel extremely tired. Despite sleeping in today - something I rarely do - I feel worn out. I think my body is doing its best to fight the cancer. Of course, lugging around the extra weight from the fluid probably doesn't help.
But I did swim in the lake yesterday, which is something I wanted to do before I started chemotherapy and the activity becomes verboten. I may try to squeeze in another beach visit before treatment starts.
Although, I've already decided I'm not going to put my life on hold as much this summer. I'm going to do whatever I can do. What is swimming in the chemically-balanced pool in my backyard going to do? Kill me? Ha! I didn't do things last summer in anticipation that I'd beat the cancer and do them this summer. Look where that got me.
So I'll continue to trudge (some would argue waddle) along with my rapidly filling body and do the best I can. I'll also try to gear up for the next fight of my life. It's all I can really do right now.
Tina
If I felt sick because I ate too much, I could abstain from food and feel better. If I felt fat, I could diet. If I were hungover, I could drink water, pop a Tylenol and wait it out. If I hurt myself, I could ice the affected area, take it easy and the injury would get better.
But I'm filling full of ascities (fluid in my abdominal cavity), which is making me very uncomfortable, causing pain in my back and ribs, and decreasing my lung capacity. Short of taking a trip to Emergency or the cancer clinic to get my abdomen drained, all I can do it sit back and watch my body expand. Every once in a while, a tumour or the ascities will hit a nerve and make pain shoot down my legs or in my abdomen.
Diane, in true spa style, gave me a massage last night. She poured oil on my poor, aching body and found a few wicked knots on which to work. When I complained my lower back hurt, she went to work on relieving some of their tightness. I'm sure it's from carrying around all that extra fluid. The discomfort and my size is similar to being pregnant, without the benefit of a baby at the end.
It was good to be at the spa and hang around with Diane and Pete this weekend. They reinforced that I only have to be me with them, and don't have to put on a brave face. They're happy having sad Tina, angry Tina, quiet Tina, sore Tina, happy Tina or warrior Tina.
I was sad this weekend. This is the first time in ages where I didn't stop for a moment while in Port Franks with an excited, gleeful feeling and say, "Wow, I'm really happy." I know I'll get there again, but it feels so damn unfair right now.
I'm not quite at warrior Tina yet, either. Maybe that state of being will change when I have some timelines. I STILL haven't heard from the doctor's office in Hamilton for my consultation about the clinical trial. Let's get on with it. The sooner I can meet with the doc, the sooner we can start blasting these damn cancer cells. Once that happens, the fluid will also dissipate. Maybe with dates and an action plan, my fighting spirit will re-emerge.
I also feel extremely tired. Despite sleeping in today - something I rarely do - I feel worn out. I think my body is doing its best to fight the cancer. Of course, lugging around the extra weight from the fluid probably doesn't help.
But I did swim in the lake yesterday, which is something I wanted to do before I started chemotherapy and the activity becomes verboten. I may try to squeeze in another beach visit before treatment starts.
Although, I've already decided I'm not going to put my life on hold as much this summer. I'm going to do whatever I can do. What is swimming in the chemically-balanced pool in my backyard going to do? Kill me? Ha! I didn't do things last summer in anticipation that I'd beat the cancer and do them this summer. Look where that got me.
So I'll continue to trudge (some would argue waddle) along with my rapidly filling body and do the best I can. I'll also try to gear up for the next fight of my life. It's all I can really do right now.
Tina
Friday, June 4, 2010
Five stage of grief
I've made a little foray into denial. This can't be happening to me. It can't be back again. I'm living a normal life - going to work, helping with homework, making dinner, chatting with friends and watching TV - so how can I be so seriously sick?
When I was diagnosed the first time, I went from shock into fight mode. Within a week and a half, I found out I had cancer, visited the emergency room, met with the oncologist and started chemotherapy. It was a whirlwind of action, which spurned my fight instincts. I went from shock into acceptance. "What do we need to do?" and "Bring it on," were my battle cries.
This time, I'm waiting for contact from the doctor in Hamilton and in stand-by mode, so the activities in my life aren't changing, yet.
The lack of immediate action is giving me time to process the five stages of grief and tragedy - denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. These steps do not necessarily come in order, nor are all steps experienced by everyone; although a person will always experience at least two. Often, people will experience several stages in a roller coaster effect — switching between emotions, returning to previously experienced ones, etc. — before working through the loss.
I, along with many of you, are riding that roller coaster right now, trying to hang on and not be flung off the ride. I'm still slightly angry. I'm experiencing a little denial (although I think I'm too rational to be completely in denial). I'm also on the precipice of depressed. I'm more sad than depressed. I haven't given up or withdrawn. I don't spend most of my time crying and alone.
So emotionally, I'm processing. The very visible and vocal demonstrations of support help. Many people have contacted me, I get lots of hugs, some are even hanging their Team Tina t-shirts in their cubes as a show of support. Friends - old and new - are letting me know they're behind me as I gear up for this fight. Almost everyone is asking what, "What do you need? What can I do." Nothing yet, but thank you all.
Physically, the symptoms are getting worse. I've had two people ask if I were in pain. No one asked me that before - not even my doctor - so it caught me a little off guard. Yes, sometimes I am in pain. I can feel the ascities building, which makes me extremely bloated and presses on different areas of my abdomen and rib cage.
Most of the time, I'm only slightly uncomfortable, which I can brush off and ignore. Other times, my back aches, my ribs feel as though a knife is being shoved under them or I can't take a deep breath to yawn, sneeze or cough because it hurts too much. I also get shooting pains travel through my abdomen. Luckily, the bad pain doesn't last long before the discomfort returns.
Of course, I feel fat with my distended belly. I know it isn't me, but it's hard to ignore the tugging of my shirt over the swelling mass. I've been a chunky monkey, trying to disguise the not-so-perfect areas of my body, for too long. I find it hard to rationalize that a medical condition is drawing attention to an area that I've always tried to hide.
I have a feeling some people are using this blog as a barometer of how I'm doing each day. Today, I guess I would be a bloated, slightly uncomfortable, partially sad individual who is also in a little bit of denial about the reality of my situation. Whew! How's that for a description?
But on the bright side, it's Friday, I'm going to dinner with friends tonight and I'm headed to the spa (aka Port Franks) for the weekend. Life isn't too bad - it's the alternative that really sucks.
Tina
When I was diagnosed the first time, I went from shock into fight mode. Within a week and a half, I found out I had cancer, visited the emergency room, met with the oncologist and started chemotherapy. It was a whirlwind of action, which spurned my fight instincts. I went from shock into acceptance. "What do we need to do?" and "Bring it on," were my battle cries.
This time, I'm waiting for contact from the doctor in Hamilton and in stand-by mode, so the activities in my life aren't changing, yet.
The lack of immediate action is giving me time to process the five stages of grief and tragedy - denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. These steps do not necessarily come in order, nor are all steps experienced by everyone; although a person will always experience at least two. Often, people will experience several stages in a roller coaster effect — switching between emotions, returning to previously experienced ones, etc. — before working through the loss.
I, along with many of you, are riding that roller coaster right now, trying to hang on and not be flung off the ride. I'm still slightly angry. I'm experiencing a little denial (although I think I'm too rational to be completely in denial). I'm also on the precipice of depressed. I'm more sad than depressed. I haven't given up or withdrawn. I don't spend most of my time crying and alone.
So emotionally, I'm processing. The very visible and vocal demonstrations of support help. Many people have contacted me, I get lots of hugs, some are even hanging their Team Tina t-shirts in their cubes as a show of support. Friends - old and new - are letting me know they're behind me as I gear up for this fight. Almost everyone is asking what, "What do you need? What can I do." Nothing yet, but thank you all.
Physically, the symptoms are getting worse. I've had two people ask if I were in pain. No one asked me that before - not even my doctor - so it caught me a little off guard. Yes, sometimes I am in pain. I can feel the ascities building, which makes me extremely bloated and presses on different areas of my abdomen and rib cage.
Most of the time, I'm only slightly uncomfortable, which I can brush off and ignore. Other times, my back aches, my ribs feel as though a knife is being shoved under them or I can't take a deep breath to yawn, sneeze or cough because it hurts too much. I also get shooting pains travel through my abdomen. Luckily, the bad pain doesn't last long before the discomfort returns.
Of course, I feel fat with my distended belly. I know it isn't me, but it's hard to ignore the tugging of my shirt over the swelling mass. I've been a chunky monkey, trying to disguise the not-so-perfect areas of my body, for too long. I find it hard to rationalize that a medical condition is drawing attention to an area that I've always tried to hide.
I have a feeling some people are using this blog as a barometer of how I'm doing each day. Today, I guess I would be a bloated, slightly uncomfortable, partially sad individual who is also in a little bit of denial about the reality of my situation. Whew! How's that for a description?
But on the bright side, it's Friday, I'm going to dinner with friends tonight and I'm headed to the spa (aka Port Franks) for the weekend. Life isn't too bad - it's the alternative that really sucks.
Tina
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Anger to sadness
Work was exactly where I was supposed to be yesterday. I got lots of hugs and undeniable support. Everyone commiserated with me and agreed my situation fucking sucks. (I know I never swear in my blog, but that's exactly how I feel. Saying another word doesn't convey the same emotion.)
Instead of sitting at home, by myself, contemplating the reoccurence of my cancer and wondering what to do, I surrounded myself with people who rapidly jumped back on the big, yellow, Tina cancer-fighting bus. Even though it's not a comfortable ride with it hairpin turns at a moment's notice, and its huge peaks and valleys, the bus seats are rapidly filling.
I was inexplicably nervous on the drive in yesterday morning, wondering exactly what I was going to say and how I was going to react. I was so hoping to be able to skip into London Life and proclaim the all clear - and then proceed on with my day and my life. Even though I know it's not my fault (because I did everything I could to fight the cancer and keep it away), I feel like a failure that I've got this disease AGAIN!
My village, my supporters, my friends all did what I needed them to do. They hugged me, shed a few tears, agreed with the injustice of my situation and asked what I need. Right now, I just need to know people are with me.
Every once in a while, I blogged about the lack of response to my blogs. Now I know you're all still out there, rooting for me and reading about the "normal stuff" in my life. But I didn't NEED you, so it wasn't crucial for you to respond.
But because you're amazing friends and family, you've emerged from the woodwork now that I DO need you. I'm amazed at all the visits, phone calls, emails and responses to my blog and Facebook page. Thank you. Your responses to my cries of anger and anguish make me know I'm not alone - even on this second, stupid fight with cancer.
Today I've moved past the overwhelming anger and transitioned into sadness. I'm tearful I have to fight again. I'm scared that despite how hard I fight, the cancer may get the best of me. I'm upset my abdomen is riddled with tumours (that sometimes cause me pain) and is growing in size.
I'm also broken-hearted at how my situation makes others feel. I notice the difference in everyone's reaction this time around. Maybe it's because I wasn't present to witness the reaction when I was initially diagnosed, but this time, it feels more desperate. (Don't worry, that's the way I feel too.)
I've already shed a few tears this morning and I suspect they won't be the last. I may need to carry Kleenex with me.
I'm back at work today, because that's where I'm gaining strength right now. London Life folks, you rock!
And thank you all for holding out your arms to catch me if I stumble on this new, yet strangely familiar, journey. I knew I could count on all of you.
Your sad friend,
Tina
Instead of sitting at home, by myself, contemplating the reoccurence of my cancer and wondering what to do, I surrounded myself with people who rapidly jumped back on the big, yellow, Tina cancer-fighting bus. Even though it's not a comfortable ride with it hairpin turns at a moment's notice, and its huge peaks and valleys, the bus seats are rapidly filling.
I was inexplicably nervous on the drive in yesterday morning, wondering exactly what I was going to say and how I was going to react. I was so hoping to be able to skip into London Life and proclaim the all clear - and then proceed on with my day and my life. Even though I know it's not my fault (because I did everything I could to fight the cancer and keep it away), I feel like a failure that I've got this disease AGAIN!
My village, my supporters, my friends all did what I needed them to do. They hugged me, shed a few tears, agreed with the injustice of my situation and asked what I need. Right now, I just need to know people are with me.
Every once in a while, I blogged about the lack of response to my blogs. Now I know you're all still out there, rooting for me and reading about the "normal stuff" in my life. But I didn't NEED you, so it wasn't crucial for you to respond.
But because you're amazing friends and family, you've emerged from the woodwork now that I DO need you. I'm amazed at all the visits, phone calls, emails and responses to my blog and Facebook page. Thank you. Your responses to my cries of anger and anguish make me know I'm not alone - even on this second, stupid fight with cancer.
Today I've moved past the overwhelming anger and transitioned into sadness. I'm tearful I have to fight again. I'm scared that despite how hard I fight, the cancer may get the best of me. I'm upset my abdomen is riddled with tumours (that sometimes cause me pain) and is growing in size.
I'm also broken-hearted at how my situation makes others feel. I notice the difference in everyone's reaction this time around. Maybe it's because I wasn't present to witness the reaction when I was initially diagnosed, but this time, it feels more desperate. (Don't worry, that's the way I feel too.)
I've already shed a few tears this morning and I suspect they won't be the last. I may need to carry Kleenex with me.
I'm back at work today, because that's where I'm gaining strength right now. London Life folks, you rock!
And thank you all for holding out your arms to catch me if I stumble on this new, yet strangely familiar, journey. I knew I could count on all of you.
Your sad friend,
Tina
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
The day after
I feel broken - emotionally, physically and spirtually. Like a boat that's been battered by the tempest of the sea, I've survived to make it to the eye of the hurricane; only to learn the another side of the storm is yet to come.
Yesterday I experienced a multitude of cycling emotions. Angie, Michael and I were all deeply shocked when we learned the cancer was back. We were hoping for good news and went into the appointment with high hopes that my symptoms were due to something less serious.
Then I felt angry at the injustice of my situation. Sadness hit next, along with determination to fight. Fear, anxiety and a whole bunch of yet unnamed feelings also took their turns in my mind. I now waffle around among the emotions. One second I'll feel like crying and then next I'm full of steely determination. I'm sure these feelings will settle down, but for now I'm a bit of a basket case.
Physically, I feel like a leper. I feel dirty and unworthy with these stupid tumours in my abdomen. I also feel betrayed by my body. Despite my best efforts to fight and destroy the cancer, and my will to keep it away, the horrible tumours came back. The small, microscopic bits of sand, joined together to form sand castles in my open pelvic cavity.
In one small way (and this is little comfort), I feel justified that I wasn't imagining the bloating, rib pain and pressure, heartburn and all the strange sensations. Oh, I was praying it was part of the new me, but deep down, I've known something wasn't quite right for about a month now.
It scares me that the cancer has returned with such a vengeance in such a short period of time. The tumours are bigger than the initial ones. My CT scan showed nothing worth noting at the end of January, Yet the one from May 20 showed full blown, nasty masses. Hopefully, they'll shrink just as quickly when I start zapping them with the chemotherapy. Quick to grow, quick to shrink? I hope so.
Spiritually, the foundation of my faith suffered a tremor yesterday. Yes, I know God didn't give me cancer and He doesn't just take it away, but I feel a bit betrayed by the unfairness of the situation. I am a good, faithful, honourable, lovable person who deserves to live. But then again, aren't many people? Why am I any different? Because I'm me, my subconscious screams. It's not rational, I know. But I don't feel all that logical right now, so I may not act that way.
I know my faith is strong. I know it'll give me comfort in the months ahead. But I'm a bit angry at God right now. (But that doesn't mean I want you to give up on your prayers. I'm still praying. I still believe.)
I know this blog may be hard to read. I can appreciate no one really knows what to say or do. If it's any consolation, neither do I. But I do appreciate everyone who has contacted me to offer comfort and ask if they can help. I am so very, very grateful for all the special people in my life. Right now, I can't think of anything I need, except for support and maybe some hugs. I'm waiting for the appointment with the doctor in Hamilton to hear about our plan of attack.
I am at work today. I didn't want to simply disappear again. It felt wrong the last time, so I didn't want to repeat it. I honestly don't know some of my next steps. I'm fumbling in the dark to find my way. Maybe if you could hold out your arms to catch me if I fall, I'll make it through okay.
Your battered friend,
Tina
Yesterday I experienced a multitude of cycling emotions. Angie, Michael and I were all deeply shocked when we learned the cancer was back. We were hoping for good news and went into the appointment with high hopes that my symptoms were due to something less serious.
Then I felt angry at the injustice of my situation. Sadness hit next, along with determination to fight. Fear, anxiety and a whole bunch of yet unnamed feelings also took their turns in my mind. I now waffle around among the emotions. One second I'll feel like crying and then next I'm full of steely determination. I'm sure these feelings will settle down, but for now I'm a bit of a basket case.
Physically, I feel like a leper. I feel dirty and unworthy with these stupid tumours in my abdomen. I also feel betrayed by my body. Despite my best efforts to fight and destroy the cancer, and my will to keep it away, the horrible tumours came back. The small, microscopic bits of sand, joined together to form sand castles in my open pelvic cavity.
In one small way (and this is little comfort), I feel justified that I wasn't imagining the bloating, rib pain and pressure, heartburn and all the strange sensations. Oh, I was praying it was part of the new me, but deep down, I've known something wasn't quite right for about a month now.
It scares me that the cancer has returned with such a vengeance in such a short period of time. The tumours are bigger than the initial ones. My CT scan showed nothing worth noting at the end of January, Yet the one from May 20 showed full blown, nasty masses. Hopefully, they'll shrink just as quickly when I start zapping them with the chemotherapy. Quick to grow, quick to shrink? I hope so.
Spiritually, the foundation of my faith suffered a tremor yesterday. Yes, I know God didn't give me cancer and He doesn't just take it away, but I feel a bit betrayed by the unfairness of the situation. I am a good, faithful, honourable, lovable person who deserves to live. But then again, aren't many people? Why am I any different? Because I'm me, my subconscious screams. It's not rational, I know. But I don't feel all that logical right now, so I may not act that way.
I know my faith is strong. I know it'll give me comfort in the months ahead. But I'm a bit angry at God right now. (But that doesn't mean I want you to give up on your prayers. I'm still praying. I still believe.)
I know this blog may be hard to read. I can appreciate no one really knows what to say or do. If it's any consolation, neither do I. But I do appreciate everyone who has contacted me to offer comfort and ask if they can help. I am so very, very grateful for all the special people in my life. Right now, I can't think of anything I need, except for support and maybe some hugs. I'm waiting for the appointment with the doctor in Hamilton to hear about our plan of attack.
I am at work today. I didn't want to simply disappear again. It felt wrong the last time, so I didn't want to repeat it. I honestly don't know some of my next steps. I'm fumbling in the dark to find my way. Maybe if you could hold out your arms to catch me if I fall, I'll make it through okay.
Your battered friend,
Tina
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Bad news
The cancer is back.
The signs were there and I reported them. Dr. P took me seriously and sent me for a CT scan, which showed multiple masses in my abdomen and pelvic cavity. Some of them are quite large (I don't have details because I haven't read the CT report yet). My CA-125 was also elevated - in the 300s.
Dr W, the research oncologist, said the fact that's it's been nine months since my last treatment is a good thing (although it certainly doesn't feel like a good thing to me) because the cancer obviously responded to the chemo. He said I now qualify for a PARP inhibitor study (which I've wanted to be part of all along - preferrably as a preventative measure as opposed to a treatment).
Unfortunately, the study isn't being held in London, so I'll have to travel to Hamilton or Toronto to participate. So be it. I'll travel.
The study involves taking a PARP inhibitor or placebo in addition to chemotherapy. Yup, I have to go through six hellish rounds of paclitaxel and carboplatin again. If I get the PARP inhibitor, instead of the placebo, the side effects from the chemo are supposed to be worse.
The fact that I have to fight again, that I have to commence the fight again so soon and that I have to suffer the side effects of chemo again absolutely suck.
The good news is, I don't have another form of cancer, it hasn't invaded another organ, I qualify for the PARP inhibitor study and I'm still strong.
Even though it may not be in my nature, I am going to fight this bastard with everything I have. This certainly isn't the end of me.
Tina
The signs were there and I reported them. Dr. P took me seriously and sent me for a CT scan, which showed multiple masses in my abdomen and pelvic cavity. Some of them are quite large (I don't have details because I haven't read the CT report yet). My CA-125 was also elevated - in the 300s.
Dr W, the research oncologist, said the fact that's it's been nine months since my last treatment is a good thing (although it certainly doesn't feel like a good thing to me) because the cancer obviously responded to the chemo. He said I now qualify for a PARP inhibitor study (which I've wanted to be part of all along - preferrably as a preventative measure as opposed to a treatment).
Unfortunately, the study isn't being held in London, so I'll have to travel to Hamilton or Toronto to participate. So be it. I'll travel.
The study involves taking a PARP inhibitor or placebo in addition to chemotherapy. Yup, I have to go through six hellish rounds of paclitaxel and carboplatin again. If I get the PARP inhibitor, instead of the placebo, the side effects from the chemo are supposed to be worse.
The fact that I have to fight again, that I have to commence the fight again so soon and that I have to suffer the side effects of chemo again absolutely suck.
The good news is, I don't have another form of cancer, it hasn't invaded another organ, I qualify for the PARP inhibitor study and I'm still strong.
Even though it may not be in my nature, I am going to fight this bastard with everything I have. This certainly isn't the end of me.
Tina
Calm
I slept very well last night and awoke to the smell of French toast. Michael, wonderful husband and father that he is, created the yummy breakfast treat for our family this morning. It was the perfect way to start what may be a challenging day.
I'm amazingly calm this morning. I think I've adopted the attitude that I can't change anything now. I can only learn the results and move forward. Perhaps it's the fear of the unknown that grates on my nerves.
As my friend, Diane texted me this morning, "It is what it is." True enough. But I know that regardless of the results, I have wonderful people standing beside me. Over the past year, I've learned, my friends and family are amazing, supportive and giving. Even my cancer survivor support group assured me they'd be sending good thoughts and prayers my way this morning. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, I'm a lucky woman.
So I go to my 10:15 appointment with a bit of trepidation, but knowing I have thoughts, prayers and good karma coming from all over. For that, I'm extremely thankful.
Don't worry, I'll blog later to let you know what happens at my appointment. Hopefully, I'll be able to report good news.
Tina
I'm amazingly calm this morning. I think I've adopted the attitude that I can't change anything now. I can only learn the results and move forward. Perhaps it's the fear of the unknown that grates on my nerves.
As my friend, Diane texted me this morning, "It is what it is." True enough. But I know that regardless of the results, I have wonderful people standing beside me. Over the past year, I've learned, my friends and family are amazing, supportive and giving. Even my cancer survivor support group assured me they'd be sending good thoughts and prayers my way this morning. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, I'm a lucky woman.
So I go to my 10:15 appointment with a bit of trepidation, but knowing I have thoughts, prayers and good karma coming from all over. For that, I'm extremely thankful.
Don't worry, I'll blog later to let you know what happens at my appointment. Hopefully, I'll be able to report good news.
Tina
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