Better

The whole process took 4-1/2 hours, but the end result is worth it. Even though I still have lots of fluid remaining in my abdomen, the paracentesis relieved me of just under 2-1/2 litres (making me 5-1/2 pounds lighter).

I am now able to breathe easier, eat an entire meal and sit more comfortably. Hopefully I'll also be able to sleep better tonight and get some much needed rest.

Here is a picture of me from yesterday, bloated beyond belief and very, very uncomfortable. It affected my mood and I was somewhat withdrawn and anxious. I now feel much lighter in body and spirit.

I arrived a little early for my 9 a.m. appointment, only to discover the nurses in the stretcher bay were in a meeting. Okay, slight delay, I thought. Oh, how wrong I was. I got into the procedure room to discover the time of my ultrasound appointment was 10 a.m. An hour wait, during which the nurse took my vitals - and I read my book.

I was then wheeled through the hospital, on my stretcher, down to ultrasound. Once there, I waited for about 10 minutes until the technicial steered me in for the goopy process. After she identified what she thought were two or three good pockets of fluid, a radiologist (and his intern) came in to take another look and mark my abdomen with a black magic marker.

He got me to shift into an optimal position for "getting all the gravy out of the pan." I was in a reclined sitting position, tilted to the left and resting on my left buttock. This position required me to keep my balance with my right leg in a bent position on the bed. No problem, I thought. Little did I know how long I was going to have to stay that way. Once the radiologist marked the spot with an x, I wasn't supposed to move.

Calling the porter and transporting me back to the cancer centre took a good 15 minutes. Then I had to wait for the doctor for about 25 minutes. By that point, my leg cramped painfully. But I held my position. I wasn't going through all this to lose the ideal drainage spot.

The procedure itself was painful. Not necessarily the needle going in (although that wasn't exactly a piece of cake), but the doctor moving it around in my belly to get the ideal spot hurt like a son of a gun. Once the fluid started flowing, the pain dulled to a managable stinging, burning sensation.

The worst part was when the suction pulled an organ up to the needle, and when the flow slowed to a drip and the doc tried to move the needle around to find another pocket of fluid. He must have nicked my intestines (or some other organ) with the end of the needle, because blood started to flow in the bottle and I experience a really sharp pain. By that point, he decided he'd drained enough.

The relief was instantaneous. I could take a deep breath and my very hungry stomach actually made a hollow, growlingy sound instead of a muffled, squished sensation.

Tonight, I feel discomfort where the needle went in and deep in my abdomen (my injured organ?), and I think I'm bruised under my ribs from the inside out. It still hurts to sneeze (so my body actually supresses them) or cough. Hopefully, it's remnants of too many days of being too full and not because I still have too much fluid remaining in me.

I'll continue to fill while the tumours are still present to produce fluid, but the chemotherapy should quickly start to make those nasty interlopers more worried about maintaining their existence than trying to make my life uncomfortable.

Off to Hamilton tomorrow to meet with Dr. H. We'll devise a plan of attack and secure a date (soon, I hope) to start blasting that parasitic cancer.

I'm heading to bed soon. I have to get some good solid shut eye so I can be strong and ready to start the long, uphill battle. But I CAN do it!

Tina

Needed: A plan of attack

While I'm not looking forward to the painful, belly-tapping procedure itself, I'm eagerly anticipating the relief it will provide. I'm uncomfortable all the time, which makes me tired and brings down my spirits. As a result, I'm not where I want to be - geared up to fight, fight, fight.

I remember reading in a book that some women feel better once they start ovarian cancer treatment. Despite the side effects of the chemotherapy, the ascities pain and overwhelming tiredness from their body trying to fight the disease alone is gone.

I hope this is the case for me. I'm concerned because I'm not as positive or determined as I was last time. My thoughts sometimes settle in the dark recesses of my mind, stewing over what could happen. I don't want to be that person, but I can't help it. I need action.

I almost feel as though I'm stuck in one of my chemo induced funks. Let me out! I prefer having a positive, fighting spirit than to be this negative, grumpy, pain-filled person.

I pray this week brings a plan of attack and wakes up the sleeping warrior in me.

Tina

Just my luck

I now have two puncture wounds to go with my (still) rapidly growing belly.

Even though Dr. P tried to tap my abdomen to drain the fluid, he wasn't successful. He got a little bit on the first try, but couldn't even find it on the second. Instead of using me as a human pin cushion, he decided to send me for an ultrasound to mark the location of the fluid and then try the paracentisis (needle drainage of fluid from the abdominal cavity) again.

Even though I really wanted the fluid to go, I'm glad Dr. P stopped when he did. He can freeze the upper layers of skin and tissue, but he can't dull the sensation in the layer directly above the abdominal cavity. So when the needle goes in, I feel it. But it's a procedure I'm willing to endure to provide relief. Unfortunately, that's not something I achieved today.

The fluid seems to be all on the left side. Dr. P said scar tissue in the abdomen can form barriers, which causes the fluid to gather on one side. If I look carefully, I notice my left side is fuller than my right. My right side may be full of gas or something because it's bloated too. A bit concerning, but Dr. P didn't seem worried.

The very kind nurse assured me that patients often need ultrasounds to pinpoint the exact location of the fluid before paracentis. Luckily, she quickly scheduled a follow-up appointment for 9 a.m. on Monday morning.

Apparently, I'll get to ride on a stretcher around the hospital to ultrasound and then back to the cancer centre for the procedure. I have to lie still so the fluid doesn't shift. Maybe if I look at it as an adventure ride, it won't seem so bad.

But quite honestly, I'm not all that fond of being wheeled around a hospital in a bed or a wheelchair. To me, it says I'm not capable of getting around on my own. I know that's not the case, but that's the way it makes me feel.

One good thing came out of the appointment today - I got to ask Dr. P a couple of questions burning in my mind.

Why did the tumours get so big so quickly? Is that typical? What does it mean?
He didn't seem to think that 5 to 7 centimeters was that big (I beg to differ) and assured me that quick growth means they're more suceptible to the killing effects of chemotherapy because they're rapidly dividing cells. Die cancer die. (Okay, he didn't say that. I added that sentiment.)

Is surgery not typical for reoccurence?
He said he does surgery in about 10 per cent of the cases. He does it when there is one or two big tumours, to extend the time between reoccurences. Because my cancer is all over, surgery isn't a good option.

So even though I want lots of time between reoccurences (say 20 or 30 years), I'm going to have to count on the chemo and the PARP inhibitor to do that.

I continue to pray I get the drug and not the placebo.

Your (still) bloated friend,
Tina

So tired

I'm so very, very tired. I'm physically tired because I'm hauling around all this extra fluid, which prevents me from sleeping well. I woke several times last night to adjust my position and try to get comfortable. Needless to say, I didn't have a great sleep.

But I'm going to see Dr. P this afternoon to talk about a belly tap. Think of tapping a keg of beer. But you certainly wouldn't want to drink the fluid that comes out of me. Yuck! Hopefully, the procedure will bring some much-needed relief.

I'm also mentally and emotionally tired of waiting around for some action. Every day, I get more and more freaked about the size of the tumours, with visions of them growing. They grew rapidly between the end of January and mid-May, and it's almost been a month since my CT. How big are they now? What are they doing in there? What organs are they trying to invade and influence? It makes me want to scream in frustration. Get out! Get out!

Obviously, I'm still struggling with the emotional roller coaster. One minute I'm saying, "It is what it is and I can only do the best I can to fight it." That's true, but not easy to maintain.

The next minute I'm angry at how unfair it is that the cancer is back already. Then I'm sad, wondering if I'll get the chance to take a cool road trip again with my honey. What a basket case I am.

Bottom line, I'm scared. Those closest to me are scared too. I can see it in their eyes and hear it in the tone of their voices. I want to be strong, but sometimes it's hard.

Cancer is a kick-ass, scary disease that affects not only the person diagnosed, but everyone around him or her. It's okay to be scared, sad, lonely, angry or determined. What isn't okay, is to keep it inside to fester. I'm lucky that I have some understanding folks who let me vent (including an awesome therapist).

And I have all of you, who let me vent via my blog and accept me, even when I'm tired and discouraged.

Thank you,
Tina

Yowza!

I knew from watching Angie's face as she read my CT report last Tuesday, that I couldn't handle its contents right away. I was still reeling from the news the cancer was back.

On Friday, I sat down, took at deep breath and folded open the pages of the report. Yowza! How the heck could so much grow in my body in only three months?!

According to the report, I have significant progression of omental masses -tumours - in my omentum (the fatty layer of the abdomen). The largest measures at least 5.5 x 2.9 cm with numerous masses adjacent, forming omental cakes. Argh.

Of course, when I hear omental cake, I think oatmeal cake, which I quite like, with its soft, grainy cake and sweet coconut icing. But omental cakes are not so sweet. In fact, their existence in my body horrifies me.

The report goes on to say that I have serosal deposits (which I read as tumours) along my bowel loops, particularly in the ascending colon. Crap (no pun intended), they're all over my bowel and enveloping the cecum, which is a pouch that's about six centimetres long and 7.5 cm wide, that separates the large and small intestine.

The good news is there is still "satisfactory oral contrast opacifying these loops." I read that to mean these masses are on the surface, but haven't invaded the organs themselves. Okay, that's good.

I also have pelvic masses in my posterior cul-de-sac. I didn't even know I had a cul-de-sac! So, in the back of my pelvic cavity, I have a mass that's at least 5.3 cm and some fluid. I guess that explains my back aches.

Of course, the fluid has increased significantly since my CT scan on May 20 and I now look like I sport an inflated tire of jello around my mid section. It's pressing out, back, down and up. The extra weight also makes my legs ache. If it gets much worse, I'm going to have to wear yoga pants to work because they'll be the only thing that fits!

Of course, if it gets too bad, I could go get my abdomen drained. That involves a long needle, some freezing and a touch of courage. I'm not quite there, yet.

My CT report also says I still have a "lobulated contour" on the surface of my liver and I have subdiaphragmatic and parietal peritoneal thickening, which is more extensive on the right side. Whatever that means.

What shocks me the most is the number and size of the masses. At the end of January, there was some questionnable shadowy sections identified in my CT scan, but they hadn't really changed much from the one in October. As a result, I thought my situation was stable and these lumps and bumps were something other than cancer.

It concerns me they've grown so much in just three months. Hopefully, that means they'll also shrink quickly once we start blasting them with the toxic chemotherapy. Die cancer die!

I'm sure my face looked as horrified as my sister's as I read through the report (although I'm sure she understood a lot more than I initially did). I've gotten over the shock. I've accepted that it's terrible. While I still feel as though a parasite has taken over my body and is growing out of control despite me, I've got my mind set that I can attack and beat back this invader when I start treatment. Now we just have to start.

I meet with Dr. H on Tuesday to talk about the clinical trial. At that appointment, I'm going to eagerly ask, "so when can we start treatment?" If he said I could start that afternoon (yeah, right), I'd roll up my sleeve and gladly start chemotherapy. I'm hoping we can start later next week.

The waiting around while I know this is still growing is killing me (literally and figuratively). Let's get on with it.

Tina

Moving forward

I got the call! See, it was meant to be today. Maybe I needed to have optimism to move forward.

I meet with Dr. H in Hamilton next Tuesday at 10 a.m. I hope things move quickly into treatment after that.

Finally!

Tina

The return of optimism

Optimism is slowly seeping into my spirit. A week after being told my cancer is back, and dealing with the negative emotional side effects, I'm returning to the glass-is-half-full type of girl that I naturally am.

I'm still sad and scared. I still think the situation is entirely unfair. But, thanks to the help of my family and friends, I'm easing away from being shell shocked.

I went to my cancer survivor group meeting last night. At first I wondered if I should go because, with my cancer back, I thought I was a survivor imposter. But then I realized that from the moment I was diagnosed with cancer until the day it claims me, I am a survivor. It hasn't bested me.

My fellow survivors hugged me, commiserated with me, said keep fighting, proclaimed they believe in me and offered to pray for me. I met these new friends eight short weeks ago and now they're willingly another secret weapon in my aresenal against cancer.

The meeting last night seemed to be a turning point for me. On the way home, I noticed the colour of the sky again, I felt happy and almost at peace.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not at peace with the cancer and I'm going to fight it with every cell in my being. But I'm past the shock and ready to try to live each day with joy and wonder. It doesn't matter if I have 100 days, 1,000 days or 10,000 days, I have to make the most of each one and appreciate what it brings me. (By the way, 10,000 days is 27 years. That sounds pretty good to me.)

Now that I'm slowly turning back into optimistic Tina, warrior Tina can't be far behind. I suspect that particular part of my personality will return when I have an action plan. I have my fingers crossed the doctor's office will call today and get the ball rolling.

Even though my situation isn't good (more on that and the results of my CT scan in another blog), I am not rolling over. I haven't been told by my doctor that I only have x months. I have been given no specific time frame. So I'm going into treatment believing my time to love life and the people in it is years, not months.

Believe me, I have lots to be thankful for and enjoy.

Tina