An inspiring, well-written cancer blog

Blogging about one's cancer seems to be almost as prevalent as the disease itself. I'm working on (= thinking about occasionally) a blog entry about interesting cancer blogs, but right now I'd like to share my favorite. It's Leroy Sievers' npr blog, which he's been writing for a couple of years. Today he has asked people to respond telling how cancer has touched their lives, and the answers are wonderful. Check them out.
And here's my favorite quote from his blog:

Besides, don't they always say in the movies that you should never show fear? I don't want the cancer to know that I'm worried about it. I want the cancer to be worried about what I'm going to do to it. For all that the disease has done to me, I hope that it lies awake at night worrying about what I'm going to do next. That only seems fair.

-- Leroy Sievers
April 3, 2008 http://www.npr.org/blogs/mycancer/

Green Bananas -- Not just the name of a blog

I'm having a wonderful family time, so I thought while I was doing that, I'd share a real green banana recipe with you. This comes from combining a couple of recipes I found on the internet. By the way, you can make this with plantains, but I don't recommend it. Too tough.
Green Banana Seafood Salad
Serves 4. Best made a day ahead so the flavors can blend.
· 3 unripe (green) bananas
· ¼ green pepper, chopped
· ¼ red pepper, chopped
· 1 cup small shrimp - peeled and deveined
· 1 cup crabmeat
· 1 small onion, chopped
· 2 cloves garlic, crushed
· 1 teaspoon sugar
· ¼ cup red wine vinegar
· ½ c olive oil
· juice of ½ lime
· ¼ cup sliced pimento-stuffed green olives
cherry tomatoes, avocado, whatever you like to garnish it with

DIRECTIONS Cut ends from green bananas and slit peel lengthways; keep peel on. Boil bananas about 15 minutes until soft yet still firm. Drain bananas and place in a pan of icy water until cool. Peel bananas and cut into 1/2-inch rounds. Coat with about 1 T olive oil.
Meanwhile, heat a bit more olive oil in a skillet over medium-high heat. Add shrimp and crab, and fry until cooked through, about 5 minutes. Set aside to cool.
1. Combine garlic, peppers, olives, onion, olive oil, vinegar, lime juice, in a bowl. Add bananas and seafood, toss to coat well. Salt and pepper to taste. Add garnishes, chill.

Last big chemo

Jerry won the scrabble game, but only because he went out and I had 11 points worth of letters on my rack. It was close.
The chemo went smoothly, though I think I'm more knocked out by it this time than either of the others. More nausea, less energy.
Cinda and Rob are here from Seattle for the week; actually they went down to Easthampton to see Max, Anya, and Miles yesterday afternoon and they will all come up this afternoon. I can't wait -- family is the best medicine (and besides, Jerry's cooking).
Medical plans are now that I'll have until May 12th off, time for my body and spirit to heal while the chemo zaps away at the cancer. Then on the 12th I start daily radiation plus twice a week lighter dose of chemo for a few weeks. Then we see what effect all this has had.
It's wonderful to hear all the news from family and friends. This has been (and continues to be) an unexpected joy of this blog. Keep it coming!

Radiation prep

As I went in today for my radiation prep, a tiny spider crawled along the steering wheel and reminded me that it's spring. I brushed it off the wheel, hoping I hadn't hurt it.
Then, while I was waiting for my appointment, I felt as though something was crawling under my T shirt. After I'd wiggled as unobtrusively as possible, I discovered that I'd brought the spider into the waiting room. It strolled around under my shirt and finally came out onto my sleeve. I flicked it off onto a plant, wondering if this was some sort of omen, and if so, of what.
I met with the radiologist, who told me all about the side effects I can expect (nausea, diarrhea, exhaustion), told me the set-up (I'll start the radiation/chemo on May 12th for five and a half weeks) and then said, with great excitement, that I was really lucky because their brand-new CAT scanner was up and running as of today, and it's much faster than the old one. When I said, "Oh, so you're practicing on me," he said very seriously, "No, of course not. We've used it already -- on one other person."
So I went in for the CAT scan, with the usual hospital johnny, IV with a contrast dye, and instructions to lie still. The room was crowded with three techs plus two trainers.
Conversation on their part was limited to further reminders for me to lie still and mutterings among themselves along the lines of "No, you don't attach that there,"
"Should the readings be this high?"
"This is really different from the old one. What is that for?", none of them leaving me totally confident.
Then they all left the room for the machine to do its work. As reminded (again) I lay still. Because the machine was new and the trainers long-winded, it apparently took more time than usual, but I was fine until I remembered the spider.
Believe me, there's nothing like having to lie completely motionless to give you hallucinations of arachnids crawling all over you. I managed not to twitch.
After the techs tattooed little dots on my middle to guide the radiation, they finally let me move and watched with fascination as I shimmied and flapped my arms. I had to asssure them that I was fine and that their wonderful new machine hadn't hurt me.
Spring is wonderful. Nature is wonderful. But next time, I kill the spider.

Best laid plans

We got in to the oncologist's yesterday afternoon, toys in hand, all prepared to spend the afternoon, only to be told that my wbc is so low that they weren't willing to give me the chemo treatment. Don't worry: it isn't really low, just below what the protocol insists on. After a bit of negotiation, we agreed that I'd come back in on Friday, when I have my meeting with the radiology people, get the blood work redone, and (we hope) do that final big chemo. (They wanted to wait until next Monday.)
It's upsetting. Despite a pleasant afternoon getting the back porch cleaned up so that we can use it and then a spontaneous beer-butt chicken barbecue with friends, I found myself having a mini-meltdown last night. I think it was triggered by the reminder that I'm not really in control. I can't even make my white blood cells do what I want.

Chemo Brain

Chemo brain is real. The scientists admit it, after years in which they explained to us that it was simply a psychological response to the stresses of dealing with cancer and chemotherapy. But now, if you check sites such as http://www.cancer.org/docroot/NWS/content/NWS_2_1x_Seeking_Solutions_to_Chemo-Brain.asp

http://www.cancer.org/docroot/NWS/content/NWS_1_1x_Researchers_Verify_%E2%80%98Chemo_Brain%E2%80%99_in_Cancer_Survivors.asp

you’ll find that it is a medically-recognized condition. In case you had any doubts, Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Post-chemotherapy_cognitive_impairment even gives it a newer, longer, better name: Post-Chemotherapy Cognitive Impairment, which will undoubtedly be abbreviated to PCCI. What’s wrong with chemo brain (as a name)? For that matter, how did shell shock morph into PTSD? There are linguistic theories, but you'll have to look elsewhere. These days, I can't manage complex discussions.
The signs of chemo brain are memory lapses, loss of fluency, confusion, and loss of spatial orientation. For some reason, many people with this condition get depressed. So far, there don’t seem to be too many treatments for it, and all the medical profession can offer is that the symptoms seem to go away after a certain period of time. Maybe years.
In the spirit of helping others who may have this condition, I’d like to suggest ways of dealing with it and using it:

• Don’t spend a lot of time worrying about why you can’t remember whatever it is you can’t remember. If it’s important enough someone will tell you.
• A good excuse is that your brain has shut down for the time being so that you won’t lose too many cells.
• Write down everything you need to do in a small notebook that you attach to your wrist, like children’s mittens, with idiot strings.
• Remember to check the notebook occasionally.
• When your brain gives out and you stumble over a sentence, look the person directly in the eye and say, "Did you catch all that?"
• Understand that it’s okay to stand in front of the refrigerator with the door open for as long as it takes to figure out why you’re there.
• Just for fun, stare your oncologist in the eye, and say “Whoa – you’re treating me for WHAT?”
• Announce to worried friends, “At least it doesn’t affect my ability to drive.”
• Get a GPS system. This will help you find your way around the house.
• Always be thankful for the loving support your husband gives you, whatever his name is.
• If he beats you at Scrabble, scream loudly that he’s taking advantage of the handicapped.
  
  We’re off for chemo this afternoon. Jerry (see, I really do know his name) says that if I beat him during our ritual game it’s because he’s developed Chemo Brain by Lateral Transmission. I think he’s just jealous.
  
  
  

Wonderful things happen

• Two of my favorite males; this is the only picture I have in which neither of them is mugging (Jerry and grandson Miles).
• The ice is out on the pond in front of the house, and I've already seen canada geese, ducks, and the beaver.
• It must finally be spring, with peepers in the evening, birds chirping in the morning.
• Today we had a flying visit from nephew and niece, McKay and Hilary from Utah, before she runs the Boston Marathon on Monday. Go, Hilary!
• Monday is the last heavy-duty chemo; and none of it has been as difficult as I thought it might be.
• Wednesday is the Keene State Orchestra concert, with Jerry on bassoon, playing an all-Gershwin program.
• Thursday (best news of all) Cinda and Rob arrive from Seattle for a week's visit.
• I feel strong and well.

This is a week to savor in anticipation, to enjoy in progress, and to remember in contentment. May you have the same.