Hi Friends,
I'm happy to report that week two is now complete. It was a short week with the holiday last Monday, but I'll take it. There isn't much to report other than I have the usual side effects: fatigue and a burn that is beginning in the radiated area. This past Thursday was the first day I felt depleted as I left the hospital. The side effects are worst right after the treatment, so I'm making it a practice of coming home and putting my head down.
I began taking Effexor last week to help with the joint pain, and the pain has definitely lessened. The stiffness continues with soreness, and I hear my joints click throughout the day. Uugh. Still, that's better than relentless pain.
Catherine told me that according to Abbie, one of the goals of aging is not drying out. I SO understand that now--eyes, skin and joints certainly take a moisture hit during cancer treatment. Now it's all about keeping my skin moist, and for that I alternate aloe vera and lubriderm 4 or 5 times a day. So far, so good.
Much love,
Kip
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
"Let the Sunshine In" (From the Musical "Hair")
And speaking of hair...
Thanks to Lauren McIvor, Carol-Lynn Reifel's (CLR's) granddaughter for sending in this photo. It really made us all laugh. And thanks Mamma Clarke for today's song suggestion. I think the photo and song go together particularly well, eh?
I hope all of my friends on February break have a great week and that everyone makes it through this last full week of February intact. Many find it the hardest week of the winter. Spring is just around the corner.
Love,
Kip
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Oh the weather outside is frightful, but in here...
Hi Friends,
This week my friend Tanya Lewis told me that if she were going through radiation she might like a playlist that made her feel cooler. So I have added a few Christmas songs that might do the trick. On Thursday and Friday, the technicians were playing Eric Clapton's Unplugged cd. I really like that one, although "Tears in Heaven" always makes me sad and that was the song used on Friday during the minutes with the heaviest radiation. It's interesting to me that their playlist is adult contemporary, nothing offensive. With few exceptions, I am the youngest person in the wait room by about a decade, so I'm interested to see what the 20-something technicians think we might want to hear. Just as long as it's never Anne Murray again, I'm good (strong dislike there).
It has been a challenging week, although not for the reasons one might think. You all know that during the second half of my chemo treatment I experienced significant joint pain. This pain diminished in the month of December, but then new symptoms began: pain with stiffness and burning, and this has escalated significantly in the last few weeks. By last weekend, I managed to walk for 30 minutes only to suffer considerable knee discomfort for the rest of the day, and each morning I would wake up with acute hand and foot pain and stiffness that would take a while to work out. In short, I have been experiencing systemic pain that in many ways resembles rheumatoid arthritis. This past Thursday I managed to see Ruth my GP, and learned that my symptoms are not uncommon for someone who has undergone a chemically-induced menopause. Estrogen is an anti-inflammatory agent, and the sudden loss of that hormone has left my body in one big stiff and inflamed state. She put me on a drug that should give me some relief until my body balances out and learns how to deal with the new reality. Unfortunately, the drug also makes me sleepy, so I get tired more quickly, which will only increase with radiation. I'll see Ruth in another month to make sure we are on the right track. Chemo is once again the gift that keeps on giving.
I'm happy to have one week of radiation now behind me, and my arm is holding up well in the cuff. My left side is getting tighter and I now feel like I'm a walking Picasso painting with my left side of my chest higher than the right. You know when you get dental freezing, swell up like you have a Buick in your mouth, and wonder why everyone isn't looking at you? Something similar is happening here. It's hard to imagine not being able to see the distortion I feel.
This afternoon I also began some new nerve pain in the radiation area, particularly at the incision and under the left arm. I'm on Tylenol for that and we will see where it goes. If it doesn't settle down I'll ask to go back on the nerve pain medication to get me through the next four weeks.
But despite my discomfort, I was reminded this week to be grateful for my optimistic pathology report. On Friday I got a lift to the hospital with a volunteer driver named Opal from the Canadian Cancer Society. Opal and I picked up another patient for radiation whom I had met in September in the chemo wait room. Her name is Miss Rose, and she's a lovely soft-spoken African-Canadian woman in her early 70s. We met on my second round of chemo, which was her last round. The wait was long that day and she advised me to drink lots of fluids to plump up my veins and gave me advice around what the chemo treatment was like over weeks and months. As it turns out, Miss Rose told me on Friday, her cancer didn't respond well to the chemo, and her pathology was not so positive. She had to delay surgery until December because she lives alone and needed to recover from chemo, and then delayed radiation until this month because of her surgery. We walked to radiation together and chatted as we waited for our appointments, and I didn't have a good feeling about her prognosis. Seeing her again reminded me of how much support I have, how well my body is responding to everything we are throwing at it, and how much I appreciate looking to my future. I am very fortunate, indeed.
Love,
Kip
This week my friend Tanya Lewis told me that if she were going through radiation she might like a playlist that made her feel cooler. So I have added a few Christmas songs that might do the trick. On Thursday and Friday, the technicians were playing Eric Clapton's Unplugged cd. I really like that one, although "Tears in Heaven" always makes me sad and that was the song used on Friday during the minutes with the heaviest radiation. It's interesting to me that their playlist is adult contemporary, nothing offensive. With few exceptions, I am the youngest person in the wait room by about a decade, so I'm interested to see what the 20-something technicians think we might want to hear. Just as long as it's never Anne Murray again, I'm good (strong dislike there).
It has been a challenging week, although not for the reasons one might think. You all know that during the second half of my chemo treatment I experienced significant joint pain. This pain diminished in the month of December, but then new symptoms began: pain with stiffness and burning, and this has escalated significantly in the last few weeks. By last weekend, I managed to walk for 30 minutes only to suffer considerable knee discomfort for the rest of the day, and each morning I would wake up with acute hand and foot pain and stiffness that would take a while to work out. In short, I have been experiencing systemic pain that in many ways resembles rheumatoid arthritis. This past Thursday I managed to see Ruth my GP, and learned that my symptoms are not uncommon for someone who has undergone a chemically-induced menopause. Estrogen is an anti-inflammatory agent, and the sudden loss of that hormone has left my body in one big stiff and inflamed state. She put me on a drug that should give me some relief until my body balances out and learns how to deal with the new reality. Unfortunately, the drug also makes me sleepy, so I get tired more quickly, which will only increase with radiation. I'll see Ruth in another month to make sure we are on the right track. Chemo is once again the gift that keeps on giving.
I'm happy to have one week of radiation now behind me, and my arm is holding up well in the cuff. My left side is getting tighter and I now feel like I'm a walking Picasso painting with my left side of my chest higher than the right. You know when you get dental freezing, swell up like you have a Buick in your mouth, and wonder why everyone isn't looking at you? Something similar is happening here. It's hard to imagine not being able to see the distortion I feel.
This afternoon I also began some new nerve pain in the radiation area, particularly at the incision and under the left arm. I'm on Tylenol for that and we will see where it goes. If it doesn't settle down I'll ask to go back on the nerve pain medication to get me through the next four weeks.
But despite my discomfort, I was reminded this week to be grateful for my optimistic pathology report. On Friday I got a lift to the hospital with a volunteer driver named Opal from the Canadian Cancer Society. Opal and I picked up another patient for radiation whom I had met in September in the chemo wait room. Her name is Miss Rose, and she's a lovely soft-spoken African-Canadian woman in her early 70s. We met on my second round of chemo, which was her last round. The wait was long that day and she advised me to drink lots of fluids to plump up my veins and gave me advice around what the chemo treatment was like over weeks and months. As it turns out, Miss Rose told me on Friday, her cancer didn't respond well to the chemo, and her pathology was not so positive. She had to delay surgery until December because she lives alone and needed to recover from chemo, and then delayed radiation until this month because of her surgery. We walked to radiation together and chatted as we waited for our appointments, and I didn't have a good feeling about her prognosis. Seeing her again reminded me of how much support I have, how well my body is responding to everything we are throwing at it, and how much I appreciate looking to my future. I am very fortunate, indeed.
Love,
Kip
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Radiation, Day Two
Hi Friends,
Well, after all of our musings about Sting's "Fragile" during yesterday's radiation treatment, I asked the technicians today about their song choice and why I heard only the intro and the final chord. Andrea and Iris, my two totally lovely technicians laughed and explained that they have a crappy boom box in the room and it skips all the time. So they bring music to play, and they encourage patients to bring in their own selections, although there's no guarantee the machine will play it properly. Today, after getting rigged up in the machine, they started the beams and played their selection for the day: Anne Murray's rendition of "Amazing Grace." It's a little chilling to be radiated to that song and I may never hear it exactly the same way again. I'll see what's playing tomorrow and keep a little log. I'll be going every weekday until the last day of winter, so I'll at least get to know what music my technicians enjoy. By the way, each day I go to radiation unit #15; there are 17 at PMH and 457 people go through them each day. Talk about amazing...
Today, Julie Salverson sent me blog entries by a woman who had radiation in 2009 at Sunnybrook. She commented that in her radiation unit they played April Wine and Gino Vanelli. It seems they are into Canadian content at Sunnybrook. God, I had no idea there might be a research paper here.
Of course, if any of you have a song suggestion, let me know, and I'll bring it in and play it during treatment. I can't think off the top of my head any songs that might have to do with radiation, but I bet someone out there does...
Love,
Kip
PS: I just asked Catherine if she had any ideas and she suggested "Here Comes the Sun" and "Heat Wave." Well done. New playlist anyone?
Well, after all of our musings about Sting's "Fragile" during yesterday's radiation treatment, I asked the technicians today about their song choice and why I heard only the intro and the final chord. Andrea and Iris, my two totally lovely technicians laughed and explained that they have a crappy boom box in the room and it skips all the time. So they bring music to play, and they encourage patients to bring in their own selections, although there's no guarantee the machine will play it properly. Today, after getting rigged up in the machine, they started the beams and played their selection for the day: Anne Murray's rendition of "Amazing Grace." It's a little chilling to be radiated to that song and I may never hear it exactly the same way again. I'll see what's playing tomorrow and keep a little log. I'll be going every weekday until the last day of winter, so I'll at least get to know what music my technicians enjoy. By the way, each day I go to radiation unit #15; there are 17 at PMH and 457 people go through them each day. Talk about amazing...
Today, Julie Salverson sent me blog entries by a woman who had radiation in 2009 at Sunnybrook. She commented that in her radiation unit they played April Wine and Gino Vanelli. It seems they are into Canadian content at Sunnybrook. God, I had no idea there might be a research paper here.
Of course, if any of you have a song suggestion, let me know, and I'll bring it in and play it during treatment. I can't think off the top of my head any songs that might have to do with radiation, but I bet someone out there does...
Love,
Kip
PS: I just asked Catherine if she had any ideas and she suggested "Here Comes the Sun" and "Heat Wave." Well done. New playlist anyone?
Monday, February 14, 2011
Radiation, Day One
Hi folks,
Well, the first treatment is now done. The first day entails a lot of measurements, with a number of big scary machines. The technicians were really friendly and tried their best to make me feel comfortable. I received four beams, one from the diagonal left, one from the diagonal right, one straight down, and the other straight up from underneath, through my back. I was captivated to hear so many pitches during the treatment. When the technicians left the room they rang a Big Ben chime. Then I heard throughout the remainder of the treatment a guitar line, followed by a chord, coming through the speakers. It played over and over. I knew the song from which these excerpts were taken, but couldn't place it in the moment -- I was too focused on breathing. But I knew the song had emotional weight. When I sang the song to Catherine after, she recognized it as Sting's "Fragile." It's a gorgeous song, and the excerpts are really pretty, although it's complicated to hear it when you know the lyrics:
"If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one
drying in the color of the evening sun
tomorrow's rain will wash the stains away
but something in our minds will always stay
On and on the rain will fall
like tears from a star, like tears from a star,
on and on the rain will say
how fragile we are, how fragile we are..."
An interesting choice for a radiation unit?
Over the music (which was repeated for the duration of my visit), I could hear the radiation as it was directed at me, the buzzing sound was unambiguous. Some of the beams were about 10-12 seconds, others only about 3 seconds. When I heard the buzz, I would slowly exhale and hold my breath, trying to breathe as deep into my belly as possible and keep my lungs low. The trick to this is staying calm and not needing too much air. I managed with the arm cuff, although it really is high and they repositioned my arm higher twice during the treatment. It was sore after, but loosened up pretty quickly, so I'll manage. More physio tomorrow.
What surprised me most is that my skin was red and warm after the treatment. I really suspected that the first day I wouldn't feel anything and it would build slowly. The redness is now gone, but it remains quite warm. It's important now not to try to imagine treatment on day 25, but take one day, one moment at a time.
That's the lesson in all of this.
Much love,
Kip
Well, the first treatment is now done. The first day entails a lot of measurements, with a number of big scary machines. The technicians were really friendly and tried their best to make me feel comfortable. I received four beams, one from the diagonal left, one from the diagonal right, one straight down, and the other straight up from underneath, through my back. I was captivated to hear so many pitches during the treatment. When the technicians left the room they rang a Big Ben chime. Then I heard throughout the remainder of the treatment a guitar line, followed by a chord, coming through the speakers. It played over and over. I knew the song from which these excerpts were taken, but couldn't place it in the moment -- I was too focused on breathing. But I knew the song had emotional weight. When I sang the song to Catherine after, she recognized it as Sting's "Fragile." It's a gorgeous song, and the excerpts are really pretty, although it's complicated to hear it when you know the lyrics:
"If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one
drying in the color of the evening sun
tomorrow's rain will wash the stains away
but something in our minds will always stay
On and on the rain will fall
like tears from a star, like tears from a star,
on and on the rain will say
how fragile we are, how fragile we are..."
An interesting choice for a radiation unit?
Over the music (which was repeated for the duration of my visit), I could hear the radiation as it was directed at me, the buzzing sound was unambiguous. Some of the beams were about 10-12 seconds, others only about 3 seconds. When I heard the buzz, I would slowly exhale and hold my breath, trying to breathe as deep into my belly as possible and keep my lungs low. The trick to this is staying calm and not needing too much air. I managed with the arm cuff, although it really is high and they repositioned my arm higher twice during the treatment. It was sore after, but loosened up pretty quickly, so I'll manage. More physio tomorrow.
What surprised me most is that my skin was red and warm after the treatment. I really suspected that the first day I wouldn't feel anything and it would build slowly. The redness is now gone, but it remains quite warm. It's important now not to try to imagine treatment on day 25, but take one day, one moment at a time.
That's the lesson in all of this.
Much love,
Kip
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Hair (Not the musical)
Hi Friends,
This is a shot of my latest hair growth. Apparently, it's coming in rather gray, eh? It's a bit longer on the sides than on top - photos to follow on how swirly it is, going madly in all directions. And it's soft like rabbit fur (appropriately, it's the Chinese year of the rabbit).
Tomorrow radiation starts. I meet with one of the two radiation oncologists when I first arrive (I really like them both) and they can make sure the fluid is down enough to start the treatments. I was visualizing the radiation last night while I was stretching and imagined the beams as the fireflies from Walter's earlier poem (a much nicer image than voltage going through my body). I'll meditate on that when I go in tomorrow.
Love to all,
Kip
Friday, February 11, 2011
New Growth...
Hi Friends,My body's recovery and renewal is here evidenced in new nail growth. The old growth is ridged and yellow, the new is mostly smooth. What's interesting is that you can see several rings of colour, each one representing a dose of taxol. So glad that's all done.
Speaking of being done with treatment, my friend and colleague Karen Fredrickson finished her last round of chemo today in Kingston. I hope her recovery is going well tonight.
My physio is coming along pretty well, and I'm now practicing putting my arm up into an imaginary radiation cuff. I won't know until Monday if what I remember of the cuff is accurate, but I'm much more stretched out than I was several weeks ago and I think I'll be ok.
I now have more fluid under my right arm which has resulted in a hard ridge under that arm (it's covered in scar tissue). I'm not sure why that arm is having a rough go given that only two nodes were removed, but there it is. If it doesn't go down, it will eventually be drained. Fortunately, the fluid on the left side continues to go down, and that's what's most important given that the radiation is about to begin on that side.
But all of this seems minor given what's happening in Egypt today. Absolutely incredible.
Love,
Kip
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Radiation now on the horizon
Hi Friends,
Today we attended a radiation information session at PMH. There were 4 patients plus support people, and the instructor addressed the various types of radiation for different parts of the body, different types of cancers, etc. Unlike some of the other classes, this one didn't give too much scary detail. In fact, it was interesting to learn about how radiation has changed over the last few years. For instance, someone undergoing my treatment a few years ago would have been fitted with a body mold that would have been attached to the table. That way they could radiate the exposed area and protect the rest of the body. Now the beams are so specific, they line up the beams with the tattoos and radiate. The machine moves around you so they can radiate at all angles, and I'll learn more next Monday (my first day of radiation) how many beams I'll have directed at me over the 15 minutes. I'll first meet with my radiation oncologist that afternoon in clinic, then go in for the procedure. (I'll have lots of company: 457 people are radiated at PMH every day. Incredible.)
That means I'll be finished all my treatment on the 18th of March, just before the official beginning of spring. Very fitting.
Much love,
Kip
Today we attended a radiation information session at PMH. There were 4 patients plus support people, and the instructor addressed the various types of radiation for different parts of the body, different types of cancers, etc. Unlike some of the other classes, this one didn't give too much scary detail. In fact, it was interesting to learn about how radiation has changed over the last few years. For instance, someone undergoing my treatment a few years ago would have been fitted with a body mold that would have been attached to the table. That way they could radiate the exposed area and protect the rest of the body. Now the beams are so specific, they line up the beams with the tattoos and radiate. The machine moves around you so they can radiate at all angles, and I'll learn more next Monday (my first day of radiation) how many beams I'll have directed at me over the 15 minutes. I'll first meet with my radiation oncologist that afternoon in clinic, then go in for the procedure. (I'll have lots of company: 457 people are radiated at PMH every day. Incredible.)
That means I'll be finished all my treatment on the 18th of March, just before the official beginning of spring. Very fitting.
Much love,
Kip
Sunday, February 6, 2011
From Walter...
Hi Friends,
Walter posted this piece as a comment a few posts back (Spring (and Winter)), and not all of you may have read it, so I decided to post it for all to read. It's really lovely, Walter, and thank you.
Kip
Plucked out of life,
the straining flow.
This will be your
particular trial.
Not a numbing or deadening down,
nor terror known.
A foreign chemistry thrust perforce,
a tarry bolus through silver sliver.
Writhe alive with sculpted pain
searing pulse from vein to vein.
Body's skin cannot contain
the immolating fire.
Flaming drops from lashless lids
burn again again again.
Over the chemistry,
under the knife
cocoon yourself as best you can,
silk to separate
the world from you.
Til an entourage of fireflies
that glow a little
each time they touch you
eases you from purgatory
lifting lightly, you emerge
wholly holy, a heavenly creature
tenderly embracing change.
Love, Walter
Walter posted this piece as a comment a few posts back (Spring (and Winter)), and not all of you may have read it, so I decided to post it for all to read. It's really lovely, Walter, and thank you.
Kip
Plucked out of life,
the straining flow.
This will be your
particular trial.
Not a numbing or deadening down,
nor terror known.
A foreign chemistry thrust perforce,
a tarry bolus through silver sliver.
Writhe alive with sculpted pain
searing pulse from vein to vein.
Body's skin cannot contain
the immolating fire.
Flaming drops from lashless lids
burn again again again.
Over the chemistry,
under the knife
cocoon yourself as best you can,
silk to separate
the world from you.
Til an entourage of fireflies
that glow a little
each time they touch you
eases you from purgatory
lifting lightly, you emerge
wholly holy, a heavenly creature
tenderly embracing change.
Love, Walter
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Ellen's Last Day
Hi Friends,
It has been a few days since I wrote, and much has happened. Wednesday, Catherine, Julie and I went up to Sunnybrook for Ellen's last day of chemo, (which she started on August 9). It was a big day for me to go and spend 6 hours up with her, and I felt tired after but it was so worth it. Ellen had a horrible morning: her surgeon, who, as far as I can tell could not care less about what he says and how he says it, told her some scary things at 8:00 am. What Ellen heard him say is that they were going to cancel her last CT scan which should never have been ordered, that they've done all they can and that ovarian cancer is hard to treat. Now go have your last chemo. She was destroyed and cried all morning. By the time we arrived (about noon) she had finally fallen asleep so we first had lunch with her husband Gary. After lunch we each took a turn with her (only one visitor at a time), then I spent much of the remainder of the afternoon with her, trying to pull up her spirits. Mostly, I told her stories of insensitive things doctors had said to me about recurrence that made her feel better. We started laughing with some dark humor (we make each other laugh uncontrollably sometimes) and things looked up. Then, for the first time in her treatment, she had an allergic reaction to a chemo drug. Three doctors and two nurses were suddenly around her and things were happening quickly. They got it under control and injected her with an antihistamine that made her stoned (one small benefit from the ordeal). With ovarian cancer, they inject some of the chemo drugs through an IV into the arm, and some through a port directly into her abdomen. At the end of the day, they get her to lie on each side, then tilted back, then upright, to get the drug to spread across the area. This feels incredibly low tech to me, but there it is. When she was finally done, they allowed us all to come into the room where she rang a bell she brought from home, and I joined in with mine. There were tears of happiness and hugs, but it was hampered with the echoes of what her doctor had said. She was certainly relieved to be done, but was it enough? I hope she is able to move on, put this behind her, and live as much as she can without doubt.
But that's the thing about cancer, doubt is always right next door.
I also saw my oncologist this week who was pleased as punch with my results. As always, however, thoughts and talk of recurrence start to creep in. Much of the discussion revolved around my possible participation in a few studies (one I have already completed this week). For the second study, the one he'd really like me to join, I would be required to take a diabetes medication twice a day which has been shown to slow the growth of tumors. There are over 4000 people in this study, and it is being run by the Cancer Research Institute at Queen's. The drawback (other than the fact that I would be taking a drug that I don't need), is that I would be on it for five years. I would be reminded every morning and night about the fact that I had--and still might have--cancer. If I still have cancer after my treatments, this drug might prolong my life by a year or two, but it would not cure it. (As my oncologist reminded me, if my cancer metastasizes, another round of chemo would be palliative but would not cure the cancer.) My feeling is that I'd rather live my life now, knowing how good my pathology report was, rather than be reminded of cancer everyday for the next five years. I realize the importance of participating in studies, but I'm already in three, and that's enough.
I'm still not sure when radiation starts, but I'll let you know when I hear.
Much love,
Kip
It has been a few days since I wrote, and much has happened. Wednesday, Catherine, Julie and I went up to Sunnybrook for Ellen's last day of chemo, (which she started on August 9). It was a big day for me to go and spend 6 hours up with her, and I felt tired after but it was so worth it. Ellen had a horrible morning: her surgeon, who, as far as I can tell could not care less about what he says and how he says it, told her some scary things at 8:00 am. What Ellen heard him say is that they were going to cancel her last CT scan which should never have been ordered, that they've done all they can and that ovarian cancer is hard to treat. Now go have your last chemo. She was destroyed and cried all morning. By the time we arrived (about noon) she had finally fallen asleep so we first had lunch with her husband Gary. After lunch we each took a turn with her (only one visitor at a time), then I spent much of the remainder of the afternoon with her, trying to pull up her spirits. Mostly, I told her stories of insensitive things doctors had said to me about recurrence that made her feel better. We started laughing with some dark humor (we make each other laugh uncontrollably sometimes) and things looked up. Then, for the first time in her treatment, she had an allergic reaction to a chemo drug. Three doctors and two nurses were suddenly around her and things were happening quickly. They got it under control and injected her with an antihistamine that made her stoned (one small benefit from the ordeal). With ovarian cancer, they inject some of the chemo drugs through an IV into the arm, and some through a port directly into her abdomen. At the end of the day, they get her to lie on each side, then tilted back, then upright, to get the drug to spread across the area. This feels incredibly low tech to me, but there it is. When she was finally done, they allowed us all to come into the room where she rang a bell she brought from home, and I joined in with mine. There were tears of happiness and hugs, but it was hampered with the echoes of what her doctor had said. She was certainly relieved to be done, but was it enough? I hope she is able to move on, put this behind her, and live as much as she can without doubt.
But that's the thing about cancer, doubt is always right next door.
I also saw my oncologist this week who was pleased as punch with my results. As always, however, thoughts and talk of recurrence start to creep in. Much of the discussion revolved around my possible participation in a few studies (one I have already completed this week). For the second study, the one he'd really like me to join, I would be required to take a diabetes medication twice a day which has been shown to slow the growth of tumors. There are over 4000 people in this study, and it is being run by the Cancer Research Institute at Queen's. The drawback (other than the fact that I would be taking a drug that I don't need), is that I would be on it for five years. I would be reminded every morning and night about the fact that I had--and still might have--cancer. If I still have cancer after my treatments, this drug might prolong my life by a year or two, but it would not cure it. (As my oncologist reminded me, if my cancer metastasizes, another round of chemo would be palliative but would not cure the cancer.) My feeling is that I'd rather live my life now, knowing how good my pathology report was, rather than be reminded of cancer everyday for the next five years. I realize the importance of participating in studies, but I'm already in three, and that's enough.
I'm still not sure when radiation starts, but I'll let you know when I hear.
Much love,
Kip
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Felix's Contribution to the Hair Discussion
Hi Friends,Here is the latest hair suggestion from Felix. It really amazes me what you all have done with this photo, and thank you!
Tomorrow I will go see my cousin Ellen who is having her last chemo treatment at Sunnybrook. It's *such* a drag that it will take place during the snowstorm, but she and her husband came in from Peterborough tonight just to be safe. I will take the TTC and/or taxis to get around. Unlike the chemo ward at Princess Margaret, they don't have a bell at Sunnybrook, so I will bring a bell Giselle gave me following my treatments and ring it nice and loud when she walks out for the last time. I'm sure it will be an emotional moment...
More soon,
Love,
Kip
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