Monthly Archives: July 2011

Menstration vs Menopause: Aunt Flow pays a visit

27 Jul

Oh my goodness – and yes, I do feel like a 12-year-old in the middle school bathroom – after one year of running dry (thanks to both chemotherapy and Zolodex, although while Zolodex took away my ovulation . . . chemotherapy may have taken away my fertility, grrr) suddenly, this past Sunday, I woke up to the return of a long absent visitor.

Perhaps you’ve had a similar experience – or a waiting for a visitor yourself?

Well, with the steady decline of my hot flashes (essentially disappearing with the heat wave some weeks ago) followed by a bout of cramps and what I could have sworn was ‘Ovulation Catherine’ – you know that woman, Ovulation Cindy, Ovulation Grace, Ovulation Anna, Ovulation anyone who is ovulating, craves chocolate, feels emotional and is above all horny. Following these signs (plus a week of absolutely no signs, except perhaps a tender abdomen), last Sunday after a particularly happy weekend where I visited so many friends and had such a good time, well – there she was in the morning: Aunt Flow.

She arrived promptly in the AM with bagfuls of luggage. Heavy luggage. More luggage than I’d ever seen in my life, which frankly was worrying, because after a year of no luggage, to have so much was quite a shock. I was off to the pharmacy every two minutes buying bulkier and bulkier supplies to deal with the onslaught. It was a very interesting day.

All the while (as we tour the Isle of Wight with Zsolt’s parents, who kindly never asked why the heck I kept disappearing) I’m wondering to myself: “Is this normal? Is it menstruation or a sign of ovulary cancer? Am I about to bleed to death?” But then I looked at the obvious: flow with no dizziness, pain or fatigue . . . everything was normal.

Normal! After a year of menopausal mayhem in my twenties, suddenly something normal was happening. It felt weird.

So bye-bye menopause. Except, of course, for yesterday in the plane ride back from England where I was riding successive hot flashes as the plane descended for landing. “Zsolt, is it warm in here or am I having a hot flash?” Apparently my body is currently somewhere between menstruation and menopause.

So – babies, anyone? This is absolutely confusing now. If I have my period, then it must mean something ovulated. Whether it’s a usable egg is unknown . . . actually, the entire thing confuses me, which is why I’ve decided to rely on the words Zsolt’s lovely friend said to me the other day (as we sat on Margaret Island and watched the fountain rise and fall with the Mozart soundtrack). This is what she said, and I found it incredibly touching: “Catherine, you don’t have to worry about having children, because I pray for you everyday.”

Very touching.

And so, for now, I’ve decided not to worry. Her confidence is reassuring, and while everything can be so confusing (test results, my body, menopause, menstruation) I prefer to take refuge in faith . . . even if it isn’t always my own.

So I try not to worry as my body switches and questions come soaring into my mind. It is a constant struggle to stop the anxiety, but then I remember her kind words and suddenly life becomes calm.

Calm like the glassy turquoise ocean round the Isle of Wight, gently peaking with tips of froth and deep with that ‘swim in me now’ color. And I listen as the waves lap against the shore, and a lone seagull in the sky – calling – dives away from sight.

Calm like a moment in the sunlight, with nothing but horizon and quiet and blue.

Calm.

I love me a little Calm.

And so my body tumbles forward, changing toward the normal. It’s a good thing.

(And as you can see, gets me going rather lyrically. I can’t help it – really, I can’t. Writing taps into my heart, and my heart is abundantly sentimental. I cannot help the tone. It’s a little cheesy, but then, I do love a strong slice of cheese.)

Pssst! Check me out on twitter (follow) and facebook (like). To read posts-as-they-happen, plus the start of my breast cancer journey, visit www.bumpyboobs.com.

Posted in chemotherapy, facingcancer.ca, fertility, healing, life after cancer | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

Help for those helping

20 Jul

With the chemo theme in the weekly blogs, I thought I’d take another spin on the subject: not getting, but giving care to those in treatment. I’ve been there like the other ladies with the anxiety, the sickness . . . I remember one particular afternoon I was all alone at home (husband was at work) trying to eat and failing miserably (let’s just say that the bucket was ‘on call’ and by my side). Finally I spoke with my mother over skype and she had to coach me through the eating. COACHED EATING. That was a low point.

But you know, this gives me (us, i.e. the community here on Facing Cancer Together) an excellent perspective on helplessness, or rather, what we need to be helped. I think people offering care to cancer fighters might feel as though their hands are tied. That person is alone in their pain, and fear, and – at times, suffering. But you know what? Not every day has to be hard. Less stress/worry in their life will make things easier. So with that being said, here’s my list of ‘how to help’ when you feel helpless:

*FYI these ideas are only based on my experience and nothing else. Since chemotherapy effects every person uniquely, please adapt these ideas as needed – or ignore them completely if inappropriate. I’m not an expert, okay? This is simply what helped me.

Emotions: Sometimes the drugs (and situation, duh) can cause sadness, and in those cases we need to cry, talk, and have someone who will listen. Crying is a release, so if she/he does just let them go or even join in. Getting it out means less sadness left inside. And after the cry, you can tell them that they’re doing well, you are so proud of them, and you love them very much. And then make two cups of tea (or their favourite drink).

Physical Stuff: When feeling exhausted it’s difficult to be motivated. That is where YOUR support is so important. You are the motivation. Take them on a one, or two, or ten minute walk – whatever time they can handle. Walking helps to clear the drugs, so ultimately it helps them feel better. I like to play Just Dance with Zsolt, so there is another idea.

Same for drinking. Chemo people need to drink a lot (if possible) after treatment. This also clears the drugs. The nurse told me at least 2 litres a day, but that is hard to manage and when I was sick it felt impossible. So again, bring them drinks – and have a variety in the home like juice, tea, water, etc. It will make drinking less of a chore.

Mental Stuff: Another way you can help is by simply ‘visiting’. Come over and talk about your day, what you’ve done, the funny things you’ve seen. Their mind may be on cancer – but I’ll tell you what, the minute it stop fixating on that problem the nausea and fatigue becomes less. Just being there for a visit helps. Topics like chemotherapy treatment, needles, nausea, etc. shouldn’t be fixated upon unless they bring it up (and then, please do talk about it as much as needed). I had a gag reflex to the words ‘chemo treatment’ during my therapy. I would always rather talk about my friend’s new kittens, or Zsolt’s thesis, or what I put in the goulash to make it so awesome.

Housekeeping: Cooking and cleaning take energy. Until they have energy again – and please don’t asusme it’ll be anytime soon, it is such (SUCH) a relief to have help. Making meals, preparing snacks, cleaning the bathroom – they’re like little miracles that help us along. If you can assist in these areas, please do.

I think that carers take on a lot of responsibility and emotional stress. It is okay to be overwhelmed, we all are. The key thing is to push on and find relief for the stress. There will be happy moments filled with love (laughing over a memory, sharing a hug, going somewhere familiar); savour those times, they are your life boat and a reminder that this will pass.

I hope that helps. Anyone with ideas toward supporting people going through chemotherapy please do add your opinion to the discussion.

P.S. on a more personal note: still no hotflashes. What does it mean?! I don’t know.

Want to say hello? Check me out on twitter (follow!) and facebook (like!). To read posts-as-they-happen, plus the start of my breast cancer journey, visit www.bumpyboobs.com.

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And suddenly my hot flashes stopped

13 Jul

Missing: sweat inducing, anxiety raising, entirely distracting hot flashes.

Where the heck did my hot flashes go? This past week has been spent besides a lake in Hungary at my parents-in-law’s cottage. Temperatures in Hungary (Balaton) have been rising to about 35 degrees. It’s not a humid heat like in Ontario, though it is quite heavy in their suntrap porch where we eat things like steaming goulash soup.

So with all things hot and sticky around me, I honestly though this week would be – apart from the water wading, grass beach laying and lake-side snacking – a rollercoaster of slippery, sweaty hot flashes. Not the case.

Let’s count back to the start of chemotherapy (holding out my fingers to begin listing the months): September, October, November, December, January, February, March, April, May, June, July. My first chemotherapy session was also my first shot of Zolodex, which ‘shuts down’ the ovaries in hopes of protecting the eggs (p.s. that sure didn’t work, at least for me), and so I cannot say whether it was the chemotherapy that kicked me over into menopause or the Zoladex. AC chemo is quite harsh, and the doctors reckon it may have caused my now low egg levels.

I used to always hear my mother complaining of hot flashes. She has a fan set up in her bedroom to tackle the moments of personal heat waves, and I had always thought, ‘geez, toughen up woman.’ (Funny how I had so little sympathy for her – I always figured warm was warm . . . didn’t realize then that ‘warm’ doesn’t exactly cover a hot flash.) But then I began to get ‘warm’ myself – added onto chemotherapy there were night sweats, panic moments, and midday perspirations.

It was, I guess, acute.

However, from a quick shot upward on the graph, things slowly started to reduce. I went from night sweats, to night hot flashes, to not too much at night at all. Day time hot flashes persisted, but eventually I was ready with my personal hand fan and a warning to my husband: “don’t talk to me right now, I’m having a hot flash” and even learned to recognize the precursor signal of high anxiety over anything and nothing: ‘I left my toothbrush on the sink . . . (thinking while in bed and nearly dead asleep/nearing a hot flash) . . . my toothbrush is on the sink!’

But you know, I held out hope that they’d quickly disappear. Afterall, young women who undergo chemotherapy have a great chance of maintaining their fertility, even if menstruation stops for a while. But you know what? Not this young woman. Test results came back with a very low hormone result (i.e. not so many eggs left in my ovaries). At this point I threw in the towel and accept that I was, most certainly, in my menopausal years at 28, and that was that. Hot flashes and I were going to become well acquainted over the next handful of years.

And every day, at least once or twice, I’d get hit with the heat wave.

Except for this week.

Maybe it’s because my body was already hot with the Hungarian heat? But then, I didn’t have the anxiety attacks either. Maybe it’s because I was maxed and relaxed; does anxiety trigger hot flashes, or hot flashes trigger anxiety? Maybe it’s because things are changing down below (today I’m all crampy, which is a bit strange, and last week – if someone hadn’t told me my eggs were mostly gone, I could have sworn I was ovulating) . . . who knows. Wouldn’t it be lovely if the body reported any problems on a print out each morning?

Anyhow. My hot flashes have gone missing. Fingers crossed this trend continues – but I almost don’t care either way. There was a time I monitored the occurrences and hoped that their stoppage meant I could have children. Now . . . now I really don’t know what it means.

But you know what – I’m not gonna let it worry me. There are too many other stupid things to worry over, like toothbrushes left on the bathroom sink. And besides, it’s nice not having hot flashes. At least for this past week, it’s been lovely to feel mostly, totally, almost (except for that ever lurking ghost of ‘what happened last year’) normal. Normal is nice.

Want to say hello? Check me out on twitter (follow!) and facebook (like!). To read posts-as-they-happen, plus the start of my breast cancer journey, visit www.bumpyboobs.com.

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Everything has changed, everything is still the same

6 Jul

Yesterday was my birthday; I turned a beautiful twenty nine years old.  Oh, life does feel good (I had debated whether or not to admit this today – not wanting to show off, but sometimes life does feel good – darn tooting good!) Flashback one year, and I was celebrating with my mother and husband in our tiny, English apartment. It was a special kind of birthday (special as in, especially difficult) with me just having lost a breast, mom sleeping on the living room floor (visiting from Canada), our neighbours nursing a screaming baby, and that cloud of BREAST CANCER hanging over our worlds.

“Blow out the candles, Catherine!” and last year that moment, even while stuck in the middle of a shit-storm, was a happy moment.

Yesterday, exactly one year later, we met with an old friend of my husband’s. This fellow, let’s call him Peter, is about thirty years old and fit as a fiddle (you should see how the ladies check him out). Peter is recovering from a stroke.  A stroke. Just over a year ago, something went funny in his brain (no one knows why, there is no obvious cause  . . . hey, that sounds familiar.) He was playing basketball with a group of medics when this happened and was rushed off to hospital. What followed was a year of retraining the left side of his body to move. Everything had to be relearned. It was, in short, difficult.

So I felt like we had something in common – two unexplained, unexpected illnesses, three lives (ours and Zsolt’s) entirely changed. And I said to Peter (as we sat beneath an almond tree in the back of this courtyard off the high street, sipping cold amaretto tea.), “I can’t stop remembering the past year. It keeps coming back to me like a bad dream.” To which he replied, “We’ll never forget it. This has changed everything.”

What has it changed? What is so different from last year with my mom and Zsolt and the missing breast, or four years ago in Barcelona, or from when I turned five and hosted a My Little Pony birthday party?

What has changed?

Perspective, I suppose.

Never before had I known darkness until cancer paid a visit. But then again, I’d never known such strength either, and I’d never depended upon hope so earnestly. I’d never cried so much. I’d never fought so hard. I’d never reached so far (so far – even across the world for support). I’ve never loved so fiercely.

Honestly, I’m still the same happy girl I was twenty four years ago. My teeth still have gaps. Birthdays are still exciting. Reading is still a passion. Silence is still golden.  But at the same time, I’m also someone entirely different.

It’s hard to explain. Best not to try.

Everything has changed, and everything is still the same. Nothing can be erased. And birthday candles – this year in the shape of a two and nine – still fill me with delight.

To read posts-as-they-happen, plus the start of my breast cancer journey, visit me at www.bumpyboobs.com and check me out on twitter.

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