Category Archives: chemotherapy

How to STAND OUT during chemo and beyond

19 Nov

I don’t know why I’m writing about this today, except that last week I met and chatted with a women who is going through chemotherapy. We met in a coffee shop, and while it’s clear from our chatting that there is much going on with treatment and life, I couldn’t stop thinking how lovely she was looking; she undoubtedly stood out from the coffee shop crowd, and it was largely because she choose to be striking with her clothes and makeup alongside her bald head.

All of this made me think back in time, as I realised, “Geez, like this beautiful lady (she has a name, I’m just not using it here), I really stood out after chemo with the bald-to-short hair.” Which led to other thoughts like, “Should I cut my hair short again?” (NO!) “Didn’t I promise myself to be fabulous ever moment possible once my body had recovered?” (YES!) “Maybe I should write a post about standing out.” (Which I’m doing right now.)

Here’s the thing about chemotherapy – it knocks you on your ass. And frankly, if you decide to leave your home, which is rather inevitable during treatments, you will attract attention even if you’d rather be invisible to the world.

Let me say it again. You will attract attention.

And after treatment there’s still months upon months of very short hair. Once again, you will attract attention.

But is that a bad thing? If you are going to stand out, then why not do it on your own terms? And hey, why not use the months following chemo as a practise trial for standing out for the rest of your life? Let it be a warm-up for becoming a spectacular presence in your everyday life – a unique energy people can’t help noticing.

Personally, this is a big challenge for me since I grew up being the too-tall-for-the-boys constant wall flower. But the more I try with things like pink glasses, big blue rain boots, funky jackets, pretty clothes, blond highlights to come . . . the easier it becomes. No joke, practice makes this easier, and really satisfying too. Every wall flower wants to be noticed.

Therefore, I present to you, with an invitation to add your own ideas in the  the forum!: Six ideas for standing out during chemo (i.e. whenever you can manage the energy) and beyond!

1. Find some beautiful accessories, e.g. scarves, bracelets, statement necklaces, earrings. Remember, scarves are not exclusively for your head – these can be worn around your neck as well. The lady in the coffee shop wore a beautiful combination of a pale pink scarf wound around a gold thread scarf. The result was so complimentary, I just kept looking at it and thinking how pretty she looked.

2. Smile at people. If they are going to be looking at you, look back at them. Smile, nod, say hello. I’m not saying you need to stop and converse with everyone about cancer or whatever else is on your mind that day, but smiling makes you instantly more relatable. It’s the universal ‘hello’ and everyone is better looking with a smile on their face.

3. Invest in an interesting and impeccably flattering piece of clothing, make it different from the crowd . . . you could snap up something from a local designer, or search a vintage shop for some old-time charm. If you don’t have the energy to shop, no worries – just keep a general eye out, and in the meanwhile look for daring pieces in your closet you’ve never had the guts to wear before this moment in life. (But obviously wanted to, cause how did it end up there otherwise?) Maybe it’s a jacket that’s tailored to your curves, maybe it’s an asymmetrical dress or shirt – I don’t know. All I know is it should be well made and different from anything else you’ve been seeing on the streets.

4. Embrace the short hair . . . at least for a while. I had mixed feelings about my short hair, but while it was there – I tried to style the blond curls (throw-back to my baby hair) sky high like Kramer from Seinfeld. Why not? Having pixie short hair is such a unique experience, and it instantly marks you from the crowd as a daring individual. Instead of hating the hair – love every second of your re-growth, from punk-rocker shaved to Natalie Portman sweet. . . you will stand out with that short hair, so make the most of the experience.  (Speaking of which, I really need to get some highlights put in. I’m aching to go BLOND again!)

5.Embrace colour. Please resist the urge to hide behind black or grey on a daily basis. Okay, I agree that black and muted tones can be very flattering . . . but if you want to be striking, find colour that flatters your skin tones. Couple darker tones (if that’s your comfort zone) with pops of coral, strong blue, light pink, oranges & reds with with blueish tones, green or yellow. Combine those colours with your statement piece, and lady, you’ll be smoking hot – and not because of the menopause!

6. Attend a Look Good Feel Better Session. If you want to learn about that, check out this post, but basially it teaches you how to be hygenic and pretty during treatments and beyond. The volunteers and sponsors work miracles that go beyond the physical – tapping right into  and healing your cancer-damaged self-esteem, and it’s free. Sign up through this link, if you like.

I have this blue jacket that I wear whenever the weather allows . . . it’s cut quite uniquely, has polka dots and is rather flattering. People say to me often enough, “oh, you’re the girl in the polka dot jacket. I’ve seen you before!” You bet your ass they have. Chances are they’ve seen a lot of people before, but not everyone stands out.

You are fantastic, you are alive, you are YOU. So I reckon take the attention and twist it in your favour. Everyone deserves attention, why not use now to practise how to be present and seen? It’ll get you off to a running start for all those lovely and healthy days to follow treatment.

And that’s my two cents about that!

Catherine

Posted in cancer, chemotherapy, healing, life after cancer | Tagged , , | 3 Comments

Happy Halloween from Bumpyboooooooo!

29 Oct

I love Halloween. There’s something about this time of year that is so filled with simple pleasures – it’s partly nostalgic and partly in the present. You know what I mean? We used to dress up and run house to house, now we’re the ones dishing out candy and eating about half between doorbell rings.  For me the holidays are powerful times, grounding times.

And then there’s the carving of the pumpkin.

Okay, honestly, I don’t love revisiting ‘life during chemo’ every moment of the day, but for all the crap getting treated for cancer (it still feels unbelievable that I am the one writing those words) dragged me through, and yes, it was full up with all kinds of crap . . . there were moments that instead of being degraded took on an extra shine. My Christmas obsession was certainly one of those, and carving the pumpkin was another.

I’ve carved pumpkins since crayon met paper. With the help of my parents, on my own initiative, with my brothers, with my friends, with my husband . . . we carve pumpkins. Dad used to buy the BIGGEST pumpkins he could find at the market and take them back home to sit in the cold garage for a week or two. I’d go out and look at these huge glossy orange globes . . . so smooth, so bumpy, so beautiful (kinda like boobs! Just though I’d get a little crass in honour of my blog’s moniker).  And then one day, just before the 31st, we’d finally be allowed to carve them.

First we’d draw a few different faces and pick our favourite. Then my dad would cut open the top, and we’d reach in to scoop out the slime.

Finally we’d make the face, light a candle, and place it on the front porch. That evening, Halloween night, the street would smell like pumpkins and burning candles. AH, I love that smell!

So back when I was in chemotherapy, away from family in a country (England) that doesn’t do Halloween because every other day is another excuse to put on a costume for them, and Halloween is overshadowed by Guy Fox . . . back then, I just wanted to connect with that happier piece of myself.

Therefore, Zsolt and I carved a pumpkin.

Zsolt had nothing to do with Halloween until I met him in 2005. We hunted out this miniscule pumpkin that year and carved it upon my insistence, and we displayed it in our apartment corridor since there was no front porch or balcony available. I think I did most of the carving back then – he was repulsed by all the slime. But two years ago, my man was a champ. We drew the picture, and he did the face (pulling out guts and all). It was just so normal and so happy. I was exhausted from the taxol treatment, but happy nevertheless. Add to that an American friend dropped by with candy and pumpkin bread . . . oh my god, heaven on earth!

And now, because of that time, and because of all the years that preceded, I love Halloween even more than before. Never mind I don’t go out to parties, don’t trick or treat, don’t watch really scary movies because they are so freaking SCARY. We carve our pumpkin and spend some time together. Life is all about those pumpkin carving moments, you know? That’s the really good stuff right there.

So I wish you a happy, happy HAPPY Halloween.

May it be exactly what you need.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN,

From Bumpyboooooooooobs (Catherine)

Posted in chemotherapy, life after cancer | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

A big Happy Father’s Day to you dads

17 Jun

Today is father’s day, which mean we’ve spent the entire Sunday eating great food. First there was the truck stop by Arnprior, then we had a BBQ, and then there was a beautiful pavlova. So today’s post is going to be a short one. Really, a million things are happening right now here in the world of Bumpyboobs (i.e. my life) but I have a gag order placed on several of them. You’ll hear more about that later.

In the meanwhile, in honour of father’s day, here’s a list of some top-ten dad moments from my dad, Tony Bony. I am sure there are more, but at the moment, these spring to mind.

  • Dad pulling a giant fish from the water – cursing like a sailor, and smiling like a fool.
  • Dad making me sweet potato French fries after my chemotherapy, when I was so hungry and emotional, it was more than many men could tolerate.
  • Stories after dinner, when he rolls back time and entertains us with something hilarious that happened in his childhood. Our narrative nature must come from his side of the family.
  • Dad giving a speech on the day Zsolt and I were married, basically saying how proud he was, and holding back the tears.
  • Dad as a hippy, which I’ve only witnessed through old photographs.
  • Dad picking me up at 3 am in the middle of nowhere, after I had decided to go for a walk (let’s not worry as to why I was in the middle of nowhere at 3 am.) and not giving me shit until the next morning.
  • Dad coming home from work when I was a little girl sick with a cold and saying, “It’s no fun being sick, eh kid?”
  • Dad pushing me to go out to Jasper, Alberta for the summer. It was a completely amazing experience.
  • Dad walking out of mass on Christmas, leading the entire line of people who’d just received communion, and then breaking down laughing when we realize this wasn’t the right way to go.
  • Dad talking to me every other day during the chemotherapy via skype – taking my mind off all the crap with a little light conversation, and some funny stories to pass the time.

Even though he can sometimes drive me crazy, he’s been a great father. I guess we all drive each other crazy occasionally . . . what really matters, I reckon, is the polar moments – whether it’s shit hitting the fan, or all the good stuff happening at once, what really  matters is that for those highs and lows, we support one another. It’s something to be counted on.

So happy father’s day. I hope your dad is as awesome as mine. Please do share your best dad moments if you have some. :)

See you later,

Catherine

P.S.

We bought an inflatable, two person KAYAK!!! More later. Let’s just say, I decided to finally realize that long-awaited chemo dream of paddling on the water.

Posted in chemotherapy, finding support, life after cancer | 2 Comments

Getting fertility results: our journey continues . . .

20 Apr

Last Monday was our appointment with the fertility doctor. I’ve already had the scans and blood tests, so this meeting was to review the results. Now just about a year ago, I received my AMH results by phone and the news was essentially devastating – so driving to this appointment yesterday, my nerves were on high alert.

All these scenarios were running through my mind as I moved light to light to light across Ottawa.  Zsolt all the while was assuring me everything was fine, and I should calm down. I told him, “I know everything is fine,” but that nevertheless I couldn’t calm down.

Your mind can say one thing, but your body may say another. The anxiety felt like a thickness inside me.

We drive up, we park, we go in. . . we’re directed to a side waiting room and it gives flashbacks of the Southampton Princess Anne Hospital where all the baby-related cases are ushered to these tiny waiting rooms where people generally sit for an hour flipping through year-old magazines of Elle, Seventeen and Cosmo. Oh yeah, that’s also where they put the ladies who have cancer, right before breaking the news. So these stupid memories are clearly doing little for my composure.

However, Zsolt starts talking to me about his family and shopping for televisions, and in listening to his description of this debate between 3D television or 46 inch screens, somehow I’m calmed down. That’s husband-power right there.

The doctor calls us in, we go in. Her office is bright and comfortable. She has a computer that I’d love to own (those big screens on the desk).

And she basically dives in. It’s not so bad.  While my AMH test was abysmally low – other tests give reason to hope. My progesterone is tickity-boo;  my follicle count is low, but a high type of low;  some hormone is a bit higher than it should be (the hormone that tells the eggs to release, which causes ovulation), however not too high . . .

Essentially, yeah, my fertility has taken a hit. My eggs are low. I’m not where the average 30 year old woman would be in terms of baby-making goodies.

However, it’s not bad.

She says, “you’re nowhere near menopause.” And that is totally awesome, because I’ve had enough of hot flashes and anxiety attacks for a while.

But she cannot say how my fertility will be in a year, or two years, or five years . . . which is why I’m thinking of trying to extract some eggs sooner, and then actually have a baby later. However we’ll see. Before you’re allowed to do anything, they need to get permission from your oncologist – which kinda frustrates me simply because I hate people telling me what to do. Suggesting what to do is fine. But telling me? No. No. No. However, Dr Canada is excellent and understanding. If I keep an open mind to his suggestions, I’m sure he’ll keep an open mind to mine as well.

And that’s my baby story. Not too much to say. Zsolt is ship-shape. My uterus is looking lovely. And apart from all of this, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see. Hmm, that’s a concept that never seems to lose relevance. Wait and See. See and Wait. Wait See.

End of story. :)

Can you relate to this post? Well, maybe you could relate to these too – fumble along with me at bumpyboobs.wordpress.com, or even better, say hello on Twitter or hang out on Facebook for some like-minded fun. :)

Posted in breast cancer, chemotherapy, fertility, healing, life after cancer | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Photoshooting for Lives Affected by Cancer

22 Mar

Okay, I’m here at my cafe and ready to write. The weather outside is bizarrely fine considering it’s still March, and I’m dressed in an outfit that my husband would 100% hate (I look like a neon pink hippie). So, the time has come to relive yesterday in the written form, and it involves owl eyes, bright yellow dresses, and throwing flowers in the air.

Doesn’t that sounds quite idyllic. Actually it was a photo shoot in Toronto (not exactly idyllic, but still good fun) for the Look Good Feel Better 20th anniversary magazine, Lives Affected by Cancer. As mentioned, I’ve written an article for the issue that dips into the impact of cancer and treatment on a couple’s love life, which is huge, freaking huge, and ripples out into everything, then ripples back in upon itself . . . like some freaking never ending cycle of crabbiness and – !!!! A man in the cafe just unleashed a hurricane from his mouth – Where was I? Oh, it’s a difficult situation that hardly ever gets discussed. So we’re discussing it.

And it’s a tricky concept to photograph as well. But wisely the art direction choose to work with the idea of flowers and lightness – and hey, how brilliant? While sex is SEX (Wohoo!), it’s also sweetness, gentleness and romance. Flowers are very appropriate.

So yesterday morning I go up way too early and joined the art director (I so want to say his name, but lately I’m not really sure if I’m able. Am I able?) as we took a cab across Toronto and arrived at the studio. We initially arrived at the wrong studio, a few buildings down and only realized this upon knocking on the wrong apartment door, which sheds some light on how tired we felt.

But eventually we made it.

Unlike the first photo shoot for Glow, this place had a completely different vibe. Firstly, it was empty except for the photographer and her assistant. Secondly, it was a huge space. Big windows and 30 foot ceilings, white painted everything and pillars so large I couldn’t wrap my arms around them. Why, why, why don’t they make these buildings anymore? It was magnificent.

People began to trickle in. And in. And in. Seems to me these photo shoots are highly complex – not to mention the editing and planning of a magazine. The magazine designer was explaining how much work went into the project, and it sounds nearly endless. No wonder every little job needs to be considered, and it’s incredible to watch them integrate their roles like clockwork.

So we stared with makeup and a lovely man helped me look natural, fresh and beautiful. He took the curlers to my lashes and gave them a good pinching (during which I was frozen – mannequin like), then added mascara and a tiny bit of shadow at the edges of my eyes. Sexy! Yet sweet. Way more make emphasis than I’d ever dare to use, but the result was striking.

And then came the dress. Think of something from the 1960s that a woman would wear to lunch out with the girls . . . think lemon drops and traces of white flowers . . . think about Jackie Onassis and Audrey Hepburn. That was my dress.  (It was too large so they clipped it at the back, and I wore my hiking socks since they weren’t photographing my full body. Ridiculous yet comfortable.) The makeup artist (and he was certainly an artist) touched up my lips with a bit of pink that popped against the yellow.

And then the shooting began. Goodness me. I am NOT a model – it makes me wonder, why is it easy to look interesting and friendly in front of the mirror at home, but when people are watching and the camera pops, and someone says “Happy! Be happy” . . . why is it suddenly so darn awkward?

But I did my best. The previous Glow shoot photographer had me saying, “Ha ha ha!” so I tried it here : “Ha ha ha!” And then other people started saying “Ha ha ha!” along with me . . . we were all standing there saying, “Ha ha ha!” and it was quite surreal.

Ha-ha-ha.

Surreal, but fun. The makeup artist came over and fixed my hair constantly, thank goodness for that because often times he’d give me little tips on how to move or what to do with my legs which was really helpful.

Along the theme of flowers, I threw petals into the air, picked at a bouquet, and smelled the chrysanthemums. It was all very light and fun. Really fun, despite my nerves.

And then there was the video. Talk about uncomfortable! You see, during the shoot not everyone came round to watch – just the photographer, the prop stylist, the clothing stylist, the assistant, the makeup artist and the designer. There were a ton of other people hanging around too. But with the video EVERYONE had to watch.

Basically this video is going to be shown around the web and at events. It’s about Look Good Feel Better and Facing Cancer Together – my particular bit was mostly about blogging and the online community. (Hello community!)

Therefore, the light switches were flipped off and spot lights were turned onto my face (“Good lighting” assured the makeup artist, which somehow made me feel comforted – not that lighting worries had ever entered my mind . . . but nevertheless, I felt better.) and everyone had to be quiet. No mobiles. No moving. No talking. No light (except for the spotlight.)

So basically it was impossible to not watch the filming. However, while the idea intimidated me, the actual execution was alright. When bright lights get shot into your eyes, the watching crowd disappears.  Hopefully I was coherent – sometimes I’d use the wrong word and catch myself about ten seconds later, way after the sentence had passed by and couldn’t be corrected. But whatever. It was the real, second-guessing, me, and I reckon that translates okay onto film. (Or at least, I hope!)

The truly remarkable thing about this photo shoot was how smoothly it ran. With so many people criss-crossing one another, and so many aspects of the production collected in one room – it’s a miracle of good planning and professionalism that the project ran so smoothly. I’m truly impressed with each person in that room and the role they played.

Despite being nervous – totally nervous – about getting my photo taken . . . it was great to be in such a capable crowd, and supported 100% by their kindness and vision for this magazine. The upcoming issue of Lives Affected by Cancer will be hitting stands (as an insert in fashion magazines – how exciting) come next August. Judging by the way things went yesterday, it’s going to be an outstanding issue.

Sometimes you get lucky, eh, and get to be part of something great. Yesterday was something great, and I know Look Good Feel Better and Facing Cancer Together are programs that certainly deserve greatness.

So keep an eye on those newsstands. But don’t let this weather trick you, it’s not August yet.

P.S. I met Michael Carrera – blogger at Facing Cancer Together and personal trainer extraordinaire. But you know what, I’ll write more about that later, because I feel quite strongly about the usefulness of getting a physical trainer post chemotherapy, and it deserves a separate post.

Posted in cancer, cancer treatment, chemotherapy, facingcancer.ca, finding support, healing, life after cancer | Tagged , | 3 Comments

Reach for those healing moments

10 Mar

The freeze frame moments – moments so good, so wholly, purely, simply good, you’d like to stick a pin in them and keep ‘em forever. Those are the moments I try to remember; sitting here, laying there, holding my dog when she was a puppy, celebrating the publication of an article, cuddling up to my husband, walking through a warm sun shower, meeting up with friends, feeling good just because . . . those are the freeze frame moments I’m sure everyone can relate to.

Dr Alexandra Ginty tweeted me, Katie and Terri this week about a freeze frame moment, saying she was enjoying a beautiful wine while at the cottage. And I thought, “what a fantastic expression, ‘freeze frame’.”

The only problem with trying to remember those moments as vivid recollections is that so often the mind moves on, the goodness  slips away, and while we might want to re-submerge ourselves into ‘that time when everything was wonderful’ it instead becomes a shadow of the past.

During treatment I longed for those memories to feel real. After my third or fourth treatment of the ‘really intense’ chemotherapy (with over ten more sessions to go), as determination began to subside to exhaustion, more often than not I found myself dreaming of better times. Better times in the past, and better times to come.

Maybe you are right there, right now, fighting through the shock, the physical changes, the strangeness of seeing a different person in the mirror (you, but not you) . . . and all around life goes on, and you go on too. Sometimes you have the strength and find those moments of goodness, other times (quiet times, when hardly anyone is looking) you break down and just wish – wish so hard – that you could return to one of those freeze frame moments.

I think everyone remembers differently, but whenever I was longing for a bit of goodness, here’s what helped me. Maybe it could help you too? And really, I think this is applicable far beyond a cancer treatment. Anyone can call upon their favourite moments to help alleviate a down moment.

  • Write it down. When things are good, write them down. Describe how it felt. Tell yourself a story in that moment so when you read it over later (years later, days later) those emotions can be regained.
  • Draw a picture. Just doodle it on a piece of paper – doesn’t have to be good, and you don’t need to show it to anyone. Drawing taps into a different sort of memory, and coupling that with the movement of your hand and texture of the page, it becomes in itself a wholly, purely, simply good freeze frame moment.
  • Tell a story. This is what you do when out for tea with friends, or lying in bed, or having someone who loves you rub your feet: tell them the memory that’s floating through your mind. Don’t worry about it making sense or sounding eloquent – just tell them about that time you laughed till you cried, or felt totally happy and the world was just perfect.
  • Look at pictures. There’s a great way to trigger lost memories. Have a photo book on hand and flip through, taking time to enjoy the memories that you had forgotten. Zsolt and I print out photo books after our adventures; it’s a fantastic way to make sure the good times never fade.
  • Make a plan! This is a BIG deal, and basically one that will carry you out of that slump. Make a plan to go somewhere you love, do something you love . . . even if you are in the  middle of treatment, make a plan. Whether or not your follow through might depend upon your determination and energy levels, but don’t give up if it’s at all possible. Heck, I dreamed of going home for Christmas despite chemo, setbacks, and the general opinion of its impossibility. And guess what? It happened. And honestly, being at home was one of the most healing times during my entire journey through treatment. So if you remember being happy by the lake, or with some friends, or whatever, make a plan – believe in that plan.

Happiness is a huge bit of ‘awesome’ in life, and goodness knows it can be challenged and withheld at times. During my chemotherapy (and a little bit afterwards too) I experienced depression for the first time in my life. Thank God that passed, but I cannot forget what a sluggish, discouraging, deep situation it threw me into. . . and during those times, all I could do was remember those freeze frame moments. Since those times, since coming through treatment and trying to regain my life – I’ve lived those wonderful experiences, and plan on living a whole lot more.

(This is also a great way to establish what matters most in your life, don’t you think?)

What were your freeze frame moments that helped when things were discouraging? Is there a particular feeling,value or memory you like to recall?

Anyhow, there’s my list of ways to recall the good times. If you yourself have any ideas, please share them in the comments section. My list was quite ‘Catherine’ centric (i.e. focused on what I love) and you may have a way to remember that’s completely your own – do share. If nothing else, I’d just love to hear all the different ways people enjoy themselves.

Until later! Catherine

P.S. If you want to come hang out on Twitter there’s plenty of room :) You can find my Twitter home here or Facebook home here. Come enjoy a little bit of conversation and fun.

Posted in cancer, cancer treatment, chemotherapy, finding support, healing, life after cancer | Leave a comment

American Idol eggs and a good-lookin’ uterus

23 Feb

“What a beautiful uterus,” says Shannon the technician. “All dressed up in her Sunday best.”

Yep, that’s my uterus – a real girly girl, getting all dolled up before trips to the fertility clinic. I tell her it’s no big deal, just wear sweat pants like me and my lulu’s – but no, she likes turning heads when she leaves the house.

So my uterus is on the display screen and looking good. Having established that ( and having taken a picture with her fancy machine) the technician takes a short break in her ultra sound scanning so I can go to the washroom. One hour before the appointment I drank about half a litre of water. Zsolt was pushing for the full litre, “Come on, drink more!” and I pushed back, saying, “I’m full! I can’t manage another drop!” What I didn’t mention was that I was mainly full because (only two minutes before) I’d stuffed two cookies down my throat in a bit of a ‘need a snack, oh, there’s a snack’ quick-fix indulgence. But nevertheless, I drank the minimum required amount of liquid one hour before my ultra sound, which meant by the time we arrived at the fertility clinic and were escorted in for the scan, I was bursting to use the washroom.

A minute later and I’m back in the scan room, relieved of holding it in, and with a sheet wrapped around my lower body (trousers and pants removed) as the technician has me sit back on the table.

Earlier, as Zsolt and I waited to be called for the test, Shannon (the technician) came out into the waiting lounge and asked, “Catherine?” To which I replied, “That’s me!” and hurried over to her side. She then asked, “aren’t you taking him with you?” So Zsolt, who is used to not accompanying me on my tests because generally speaking, nurses at the hospitals here in Ottawa are not keen on a second person in the room, put away the Playbook and joined us for the scanning. Today he was allowed to hold my hand as Shannon investigated the status of my ovaries, and I’m really thankful for that. It means we both know more about the situation.

(I’m strong in my belief that a patient ought to be allowed a source of support during tests and procedures. Even if they are sitting across the room, it so helps to have a loved one nearby during those challenging moments.)

So I’m on the table, and we’re getting down to the real stuff here. In goes the ultra sound wand. (In where? You guess.) After a few uncomfortable attempts to capture my left ovary, where she pushed down on my abdomen and prods upwards with the wand, we have a clear picture.

Basically, we are examining my ovaries today to learn about the eggs. Now, Shannon is not a doctor, so the results of my scan cannot be 100% confirmed until someone trained for years up on years in ultra sounding has examined the images, but she does explain what she sees.

“Basically your eggs are like contestants for American Idol. There are so many, that you can’t see the individual people (i.e. eggs) on a scan. But every month there are try outs, and the people who succeed for those try outs (i.e. eggs that try to ovulate) and get through to the competition are given costumes and makeovers – and then we can see them. (i.e. the follicles change in a way that makes them apparent in an ultra sound).”

So, looking at my left ovary . . . not too many contestants made it to the try outs. The blob that represents my ovary is small, and she counts only three follicles. That is a low number. (But better than zero, in my opinion.)

Onto Ms Right. Moving to the other side, with more compression and squeezing of my abdomen, she takes a picture of my right ovary and then explains what she sees.

“See how it’s so much larger?”

And it is – it’s like three times larger than my left ovary. Apparently, according to Shannon, the left ovary often takes the hit when it comes to declining fertility. Mine certainly has. But in my right there are seven follicles. That’s not horrible.

Apparently, the minimum number of follicles (eggs that made the competition) the doctors are happy to see in women when combining numbers from both left and right is eleven. Eleven. My combined number was ten. Ten.

Therefore, I have low fertility levels . . . but . . . well, ten is almost eleven, right?

“You might have to get on that earlier than other women,” she suggests. What Shannon means is, I ought to be trying for a baby now as opposed to later.

Which is more easily said than done, considering I’m only one year out of treatment. But Zsolt and I have a plan, and it involves waiting at least another year before trying. And in the meanwhile, I’m on tamoxifen and trying to keep this body healthy.

The truth is, there are more tests they could run, more scans they can take – because knowing the state of my eggs is really only a starting point. But I promised Dr Canada to abstain from the fertility yellow brick road . . . and though I agreed to have my eggs tested (because I WANT to know), there will be no further investigations for quite a while. Yes, I have to go back and get my blood taken on day “21” of my period, so we can know whether I’m actually ovulating those American Idol eggs . . . but that’ll be the end of things for now.

Fertility can become so confusing, so overwhelming, and so panic-inducing after having had chemotherapy. Last summer when I thought I couldn’t have children, that was totally crushing. This past Autumn when the doctor gave me some hope – that was relieving. But one way or another, things are going to work out, and I have faith in that eventuality. Chasing down this information is a good thing: I look forward to learning the results because then, finally, I can plan for the future with a clear picture of the options. But there are times to step back too, and after this upcoming consultation – that’ll be my time to step away from the babies and just focus on here and now.

Maybe you know what it’s like to run this fertility race? If you want to share, please do  – it will help others reading this post who are hoping to learn what comes next.

What was your experience?

And in the meanwhile, have yourself a lovely loved-filled day. See you next week. ;)

Posted in cancer, chemotherapy, fertility, life after cancer | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

Learning options at the Fertility clinic

26 Jan

One year after chemotherapy and I’m back at the fertility doctor. This is because I pressed my oncologist for the referral, though he insists – absolutely insists – that I wait at least two years with my hormone therapy before doing anything in regards to having a baby. If I can have a baby. . .

Let me catch you up, real quick: Before chemotherapy I was given the option to freeze an embryo. I said no, because my tumour was estrogen loving, and goodness knows IVF involves a lotta estrogen. Therefore, we took a chance on Zolodex. For the five or six months that was chemotherapy, I had the Zolodex pill (and that GIANT needle) inserted in my belly each month which repressed my ovaries and stopped all periods. But then after the chemo and Zolodex were over, I still hadn’t gotten my period. Waiting, waiting, nothing . .. doctor orders an AMH test, the results of which are very bad – i.e. low. Nurse tells me on the phone that I don’t qualify for IVF, I realize my eggs are super low, and extreme panic ensues because – what the heck? Do they mean I can’t get pregnant? And then, a few months later, my period returns. I am confused.

Fertility becomes so stupidly confusing after having had chemotherapy. We’re all told it can strip our eggs, throw us into early menopause (now that I’ve had  my taste of menopause, I’m in no hurry to revisit that hot-flashing experience again, though it is inevitable.) and just make things difficult. Alternatively, it might not. But if you are like me and want a family one day (or want to grow your family), there are questions that need to be answered.

So we go to the fertility clinic in Ottawa. This place is located at the back of a business park complex, and it’s a freaking miracle that we found it. Zsolt and I were working from a map when we pulled into a random parking lot (I almost freaked out without my GPS, but Zsolt is actually quite competent with a map) . . . we pull into this parking lot and stare at all the ‘you must have a blue pass’ signs for parking, and we’re about to turn back out onto the main road when I figure, ‘Hey, let’s just drive around this place and then loop back . .. what’s the building number again?’ Zsolt digs out the address number and reads it aloud as we’re passing through the back of that labyrinth lot and – hello!—there is the building, and –look!—there’s a parking spot for visitors.

How perfect is that?

We park. We go in. It’s not like the hospital with narrow halls and florescent lighting. Instead there’s an indoor rainforest, and the fertility clinic is carpeted, with curved reception desks and a sofa-filled waiting room. (The waiting room is huge, by the way, like three little rooms divided by Ikea bookshelves, and I wonder how many people do they normally expect? At that moment, it’s just Zsolt and I waiting.) We sit down, ready to wait the standard 1 hour. In England, we always waited approximately 1 hour. But instead the doctor comes out and calls my name immediately – I haven’t even finished filling my form!

Another good sign.

We follow her into her office. She has one of those giant screen computers that I’d like to eventually purchase myself. This Doctor is quite young (or at least, young looking) and I like her calmness. She has us sit down, and begins to ask questions . . . you know, all those personal things you need to divulge to every new doctor at any initial visit.  And once the history and physical stuff is filled out on her computerized form, we start to talk about babies.

[This is approximately the conversation. I can’t remember the actual words spoken, so if you’d like real medical advice for fertility, definitely go and speak to a real doctor.]

“So you want to meet today, but not actually do anything for about 2 years?” she asks.

“That’s right,” I answer.

I’ve told her about my previous AMH test in England, and the terrible result. I’ve also told her I’m getting regular menstruation every thirty days. (And now you know too!)

“Well the AMH is more a test to see if IVF would be an option for you. With results like yours, it may not be, but something is likely there if you are menstrating. Basically you could still get pregnant naturally, even if we’d have trouble with the IVF.”

“WHAT THE HECK?!”

I don’t really say that, but I feel it. All the freaking time I think I’m eggless – even having my period didn’t convince me to anything different . . . girls can get their period without ovulating . . . but . . .they still have eggs, don’t they? Hmm.

So I’m all – what the heck, how come no doctor ever mentioned this? (Well, my mother who is a naturopath and chiropractor mentioned it, as did my acupuncturist in England, but not once did I hear it from one of my medical doctors until this wonderful lady.)

And she’s all – hey, that’s how it works. You may get pregnant naturally, I’ve seen it happen.

While I’m doing a happy dance in my head, and we can assume Zsolt was too, she begins to discuss egg donation. Get these numbers:

If you find a donor here in Canada, because there is no egg bank, the process costs ~ 15,000 dollars.

If you go to the USA, where women get paid for their eggs, and therefore candidates are plentiful, the process involves six tries and costs ~ 34,000 dollars – money back guarantee if you don’t have a baby. (Money back guarantee! I thought that sort of thing only happened in retail.)

If we adopt, she thinks it costs about 20,000 dollars and can take several years.

With egg donation they’d have the donor take the IVF hormones but I’d also have to take hormones . . . I’d be taking estrogen and progesterone to sync my period to that of the woman who is donating. (Why can’t we just share tea and bond? We’d sync up naturally.) Meaning I’m still exposed to that excess estrogen. Alternatively they could create embryos and then freeze those little guys to be de-thawed when my uterus is ready. . . that’s one way to avoid the extra hormones, but not all embryos can withstand the freezing, and I could possibly have less chances of success.  The final alternative would be to have a surrogate, but I’m not hot on that.

And there are my options. Now come the tests.  (MORE TESTS)  Two blood tests to see if I’m ovulating, another shot at the AMH, plus . . . wait for it . . . a sperm test. Zsolt is about to become involved. :) Apparently he’s to stay out of hot tubs beforehand, since they slow the boys.

Okay, this is a long post. All this to say, really, that I might get pregnant naturally – so that’s something I’ll definitely try doing in another year or so when I’m still totally healthy and cancer free and have been on Tamoxifen for 2 years. Assuming I am still menstruating regularly, we can give that a shot and see what happens. If nothing happens, then I’ll likely go back on the Tamoxifen and wait for the 5 years to finish. After that we can break our piggy bank (if necessary – fingers crossed we get preggers naturally) and go to the USA, or something.

So, if you’ve been through chemo and want to know your options . . . why not ask? At the very least they can paint you a picture, and for me, though I expected anxiety, it’s actually left me optimistic.

First a great parking spot in front of the building, and then not waiting for the doctor – good signs, I think. So who knows what else might be possible? :)

(Plus I’m working with some alternative health doctors to help with my fertility and ovulation, much like I’m also working on staying HEALTHY. These are good things, and I pray pray pray it all amounts to me going on to live a long, happy, successful and most certainly family-filled life.)

P.S. Want to say hello and meet in virtual-person? You can find my Twitter home here or Facebook home here. Maybe we can have a virutal tea, and sync-up our virtual periods. ;) Wohoo!

Posted in cancer treatment, chemotherapy, fertility, life after cancer | Tagged , , , | 5 Comments

Twas the night before chemo

21 Dec

Okay – last post before Christmas arrives! Personally, this is a huge marker in my life: ONE YEAR post-chemotherapy. I had this big, serious post all written out about late-night wonderings until I realized that hey, it’s Christmas time. So I’ve schedule that other post for next week. Because it can wait. Instead I’d like to take you back in time to last year, where I prepared for my final chemotherapy treatment by ripping off The Night Before Christmas with The Night Before Chemo.

Here it is – and for anyone who is going through the holidays this season battling cancer, going to the hospital, recovering from treatments: I wish you strength, perseverance, and many moments reminding you that life can also be kind. May you laugh, love, and eat many delicious, home baked cookies. Take it all one moment at a time.

The Night Before Chemo

Twas the night before chemo and all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse

The picc line was wrapped on my arm with great care

In hopes that a nurse would soon make it bare

My parents  were nestled all snug in their bed

As wheat-free cookies danced in their head

And me in my pyjamas, bald head in a cap

All settled and cozy for a long winter’s nap

When out on the lawn arose such a clatter

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter

Away to the window I moved in a flash

Tore open the shutters  and threw up the sash

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow

Shone like the hospital scrubbed to a glow

When what to my wandering eye should appear

But a glimpse of the future, now approaching so near

With a sack full of hope, packed full and so thick

I knew in a moment it must be St Nick

More rapid than eagles his courses they came

And he whistled and waved and called me by name

“Now Catherine, now girl! Now don’t give up fighting.

Life is a changing and that’s right exciting!

To the end of tomorrow, to the end of the year

And into the future, you’ll live with no fear!”

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf

And I laughed  when I saw him, in spite of myself

A wink  of his eye  and a twist of  his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread

“Your chemo is coming and nearly is done.

Life is  now waiting and it’s promised good fun.

Let Christmas release you from this long test

As the new year Catherine, holds only the best.”

He sprang to his sleigh, to his deer gave a whistle

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle

But I heard him exclaim , as he flew high out of sight

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

Posted in cancer, cancer treatment, chemotherapy, finding support, healing, life after cancer, radiotherapy | 3 Comments

Twenty five ticks till Christmas

30 Nov

It’s November 30th, 2011 – tomorrow is the first of December, 2011, and in my household that means the start of Christmas. Now whether or not your celebrate this occasion, everyone has moments designated to celebrate life and family and spirituality and peacefulness. For me, that’s Christmas.

But there’s another layer of importance I tend to give to this season.  Maybe it’s something you also recognize?

During chemotherapy last year I had a countdown going. It started in August with my very first treatment, and it created such drama in my life I hardly knew how to cope. The countdown calendar was labelled Sixteen ticks till Christmas.  Because if I’d I stayed on schedule I would have finished all chemo before Christmas, and I had this crazy idea that once chemo was over I could fly to Canada and spend the holiday with my family.

If you don’t know, I had most of my treatment in England. Away from family, except my husband, and so throughout those months I was dreaming of home.

Anyhow, if you’ve had chemotherapy you know it often doesn’t go according to plan. Things get delayed for whatever reason, be it weight, or scheduling, or infection, or blood count. And so my chemo finish date was pushed further and further back. It soon got to the point where it was a choice between not finishing chemotherapy and not seeing my family for the holidays.

And maybe that sounds like an obvious choice – be practical, right? Finish treatment.

Well . . . I kinda go where my heart takes me, and at that time I was so desperate to be with family that even when the doctors told me, ‘You’re not going to be able to go home.’ I kept saying, ‘but there must be something we can do.’

Turns out there was, and a plan was hatched that got me to Canada, let me finish chemotherapy, and most importantly, reunited me with the family who I hadn’t seen since before the diagnoses crashed into our worlds. It wasn’t easy to get home in time for the holidays, but I fought for it. Pushed for it.  Pestered for it. And with the encouragement and organization of my parents, my doctors, my husband – we achieved that goal.

For someone who feels totally blown out by the chemo, it feels awesome to have a win.

It was quite a journey between England and Canada, and really hard to bring the reality of cancer to my family in Canada who had, in some ways, been protected by distance from the difficulties.  But  last year may have been the most important Christmas of my life – even thought my heart ached without Zsolt, my head was so bald, and the energy was lacking . . . being home was the best kind of healing gift I could have ever received.

I guess when you fight for something, it takes on a higher kind of importance. Just like we fight for our lives and come to see that everyday matters; the wonderfulness of life takes on a new edge  – a sharper focus – a spilling of colours.

So here we go into December and the madness of the holidays. Bring it on. I only see one thing on the horizon: time with family and friends, a vibrating, shining, untouchable time when things are good because we have love. It’s all about the overflowing love – hard to describe actually, but for me it’s quite potent.

Anyhow, I know this all sounds very Hallmark and such. But hey – ‘sentimental’ may as well be my middle name, and besides, isn’t sentiment what the holidays are all about? I reckon so. Lots of love, lots of great food, and loads of sentimental behaviour.

P.S.

Speaking of sentiment, here’s a song that kept running through my mind last year, pulling me back toward the idea of home. You probably know it, it’s a classic.

P.P.S. If you’d like to read about my journey from England to Canada during the Christmas season (when I fought and pestered to get someone to let me go home) here’s a link back to that story. Really, it starts earlier (with my first crisis happening when chemo was delayed due to low blood counts) but you can start here.

Posted in breast cancer, cancer treatment, chemotherapy, finding support, healing | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment