Category Archives: fertility

At the Bargaining Table with my Oncologist

17 Dec

Last week was my six month follow-up with Dr. Canada. While I only get tested and scanned once a year, these cozy little chats are required every 6 months. This is how they often play out.

I arrive and take a survey where I mark all my ranging emotions and nausea conditions at 1 (meaning not at all a problem & thank god that part is over), except for anxiety which I always mark at 2 (not bad but feeling a little nervous.) You’d have to be a robot, I reckon, not to feel at least a 2 for anxiety during these check-ups.

Then I wait a while and the nurse eventually calls me over.

We go to the scale and I take off my shoes/boots. Weight is measured in kilograms, so I happily get off the scale not having a clue what that reading actually means. (Thank you for the blissful ignorance, Imperial System).

Then I go in a room . . . generally the first room, and wait. Just wait. I can look out into the hallway through to the waiting area; I can look at the poster that says I should have brought my medical records (then think, “oh well,” because I never bring my medical records); and I look at the table that I never sit on where there is a gown I never wear.

Eventually Dr. Canada arrives. He’s a lovely fellow who was so incredibly patient and helpful when I was going through chemotherapy, so I try not to hold it against him when he now plays the “how fast can I get out of this room?” game. I’m not an emergency or a priority. I’m just a check-up.

But this time I wanted to hook him for just a minute longer.

The nurse, after taking my weight and showing me to the room asks: “Is there anything you’d like to focus on in today?” (I guess this is a test for how much time I’ll be taking up.)

I answer: “Babies.”

And she smiles and says, “Okay, I’m sure you can talk about babies.” Then leaves me to look at stuff and wait.

Suddenly, I was becoming more and more nervous. There was all that baby drama when I was first diagnosed (The guilt inducing should I/shouldn’t I get fertility treatment), and then the baby drama after I finished chemotherapy with an AMH test that was never properly explained and left me thinking I couldn’t get pregnant EVER. That is devastating news, and not something that should be shared over the phone without an immediate explanation of the AMH meaning except for the nurse saying “IVF isn’t going to work for you.”

And THEN there was the baby clarification, when I regained my menstrual cycle with a steady 30 day interval, which suggested that ovulation was in fact happening. After insisting on being referred to the fertility clinic, I had my eggs checked and yes, a few remained. “But you better get on it,” advised the nurse who scanned my ovaries.

“You better get on it.” Those words have rung in my ears ever since.

So I’m sitting there waiting for Dr. Canada to tell him that I’m nearly done my 2 years of Tamoxifen, and don’t try to stop me! I’m going off the medication to get pregnant.

My palms are sweaty. My anxiety had grown to a 4. And I left my tablet in the waiting room with my dad, so I couldn’t even tweet my way through the anticipation!

Finally, Dr. Canada arrives. He immediately launches in – asking about family history, then saying he’ll try to order an MRI though isn’t sure it will be approved, and a mammogram, and an ultra sounds . . . and. . . and . . . and he wants me to stay on Tamoxifen for at least another year.

Bollocks!

I tell him there is no way that is happening. I’ve been on for 2 years, and there’s just no way I’ll wait for three.

He changes course, and says something along these lines but not exactly: “Well, I’m torn in this situation. On one side,” (and he holds up one hand) “I’ve seen far too many things to advise you to go off Tamoxifen early. But then on the other side,” (he holds up the other side) “pregnancy in young women hasn’t been shown to put them at any higher risk of recurrence, and can actually have a protective aspect toward breast cancer.”

So he is in two minds.

I am not. I have made my decision. So I say to him,

“I know you don’t think I should go off early, but this is important to me. It is very important. And I’ve already been told that I need to get going if I’m going to have a baby.”

At this point, I am guessing he regretted referring me to the fertility clinic. But that’s only a guess.

And so he came back with a compromise so reasonable I couldn’t really say no. He suggested I stay on for another 6 months till June when my scans are all set to be done. If that’s all clear, he will step back with the Tamoxifen pressure and let me get on with having a baby.

“And in six months, you won’t tell me I should stay on longer?”

“No.”

Okay. I can pretty much assume that in six months he will tell me to stay on longer, but that’s because it’s his obligation. With clean scans, I’ll move forward and just get on with my baby craving adventures.

Anyhow, It’s weird negotiating with an oncologist. He said that many doctors in his position wouldn’t support me whatsoever, which is very possibly true. However, that doesn’t mean in any way that I would continue working with an oncologist who didn’t support me. Sometimes I can be a little bit stubborn about what I want. And in this case, I know what I want.

And so there is it. Fertility after cancer is a juggling of tests, opinions, drugs and opportunities. But I can hang in there, because obviously it’s worth it – and then, once the kid arrives, that will be a whole new kinda challenge. :)

Posted in fertility, life after cancer | Tagged , , | 5 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

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

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

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.

Posted in breast cancer, chemotherapy, facingcancer.ca, fertility, life after cancer | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Saving my worries for later . . . or right now

2 Jun

So here I am in Brussels struggling with this foreign keyboard. Internet access this week has been nearly impossible – so while I have been having a lovely time, writing is proving very difficult. And with that said, this week’s post will be short and sweet.

In terms of fertility I’ve decided to put off worrying, or at least that was the plan. A friend said to me, “You don’t have to worry about this now, save it for later.” With this summer break planned for Hungary ‘later’ sounds very good. During my treatment days there was no such thing as ‘later’ – it was all now now now – you need to lose the breast NOW, you need to have chemo NOW, you need a blood transfusion NOW. To have the luxury of later is actually rather nice. So I decided on later.

But then I came to Brussels and met a beautiful peaches and cream baby, and found the whole thing intolerable. Normally babies are fine, particularly if they belong to friends. I care for the friend, thus care for their baby. But this little girl – full of sweet giggles and smiles and attempts to walk – I had to leave the room for a secret cry on the fifth floor of this impressive home.

Hmm, so while later is great and will be followed, right now still feels rather raw.

But I’ll follow the little one’s example: one step at a time.

Sooner than later this weird baby aversion will fade (it’d better!)

Right, that is enough for now. This keyboard is too jumbled for my speed-typing tastes. Bye!

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Fertility results: not what I’d expected.

23 May

Last Thursday I received a phone call. The phone call. I’d been expected the used car salesman to ring me up and name his offer on our car. Thursday morning we stopped by the lot, and having checked it over he said, “yes we’re interested in your car, but I need to talk with the boss about pricing. Leave your mobile number with me.” Which we happily did, meaning that I carried my mobile on my person, whereas normally it’s left in my purse in the back office.

But Thursday it was on me. And when it rang, I nipped into the back to answer it away from the students. Good thing for that because twenty seconds later I was in tears.

Results are in. They’re not great. My eggs are quite depleted with .7 pmol/L (or something like that, I’ve only heard the results, not seen the paper detailing the anti mullerian hormone (AMH) test results). The nurse said she was so sorry to deliver bad news, but the consultant thinks my best option for the future would be egg donation. Meaning, not my eggs.

Good on the .7 for hanging in there, even if that basically classifies me as ‘barren’ – it’s better than zero. “You just need one,” said both my husband and mother.

Anyhow – cue the tears, hang up the phone, start the profanity (a kind of medicine not recommended by professionals, but definitely recommended by me). Quiet utterances of ‘fuck’ interspersed with sobs of disappointment. My poor boss opened the door during the phone conversation and saw that look on my face (the ‘ugly cry’ look of uncontrolled emotion), but he handled things very well. After I sucked up my outburst just long enough to fill him in, again rose the tears and he was a great comfort. Poor fellow! It was my last day working with him – leaving on a tearful note really does not represent my time within the library. It’s been all laughs and conversation (plus diligent work habits), even during the chemo months the library has been a place of refuge.

But he responded quite well. Didn’t try to fix anything, just let me go home for a private cry.

And then there was my husband. I called him up thinking ‘can’t share this news over the phone, must relate in person’ so just said: “I don’t feel well and need you to pick me up. Like right now, please.” So he came – but not before running around the flat to change his stained t-shirt and throw on some jeans instead of sweat pants. He thought we were going to the hospital! And when he arrived (I had decided to sit on the ground while waiting, which probably increased his worries), he jumped out of the car, and again I broke into a fit of tears –

“I got the results and they say I can’t have children.”

You should have seen his relief! Relief. I wasn’t sick, we didn’t need to go to the hospital. Considering the panic situations running through his mind, things were okay.

“That’s fine, we’ll be fine.” And he let me cry a little more.

And we will be fine. For a few days, I’ll be grieving the loss of those eggs. Ever since flipping through Zsolt’s baby album I imagined having my own little big-headed baby, and now – well, we’ll see. Unlike a cancer diagnosis, I am not filled with fear. Sadness, yes, because there has been a loss. This is a loss. But no fear – instead there’s hope. There are options, there are possibilities, there are opportunities. And when we’re ready, we’ll see what can be done.

For now, I’m grieving. For today. Maybe again a little later. But Zsolt and I both feel that things will be okay. We want a family, so we’ll get a family (Hello! We already are a family, but children would be a wonderful gift).

And until then, there will be adventures. Moving to Canada, trips around the world, chasing careers, getting involved, making a difference, enjoying life. With every year – every bloom of the roses – I’m reminded that things are always beginning, always full of opportunity.

In time we’ll grow our family. For now, we’ll grow ourselves.

(If you’re reading this and think, ‘oh yeah, I’ve been there,’ I’d really love your advice, or just to hear your story. You can either leave a comment, or post a note on this conversation. Thanks!)

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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The Day I Found Out: my video story

9 May

It’s not often people ask, “What’s it like to be diagnosed with cancer?” Instead it’s the forgotten elephant in the room, like other issues better not discussed while having a good time (e.g. marital troubles, work stress, politics, etc), so when Cliff from The Day I Found Out asked me to make a video about my diagnosis, my first reaction was “Why?” Why focus on the past when fighting for my future? What benefit will people find from this story? Isn’t this just reliving a bad memory for the sake of reliving a bad memory?

But my second reaction was, “This is quite flattering.” Because he had read the blog, liked my story and wanted it to be shared. And besides, maybe that initial reaction was more of a defensive stance. If asking ‘why’ – how about asking ‘why are you so nervous to make this video?‘ . . . hmm, so it was with a mixture of flattery and determination that I agreed to revisit that day (and record it for general viewing).

The experience was surprsiing – totally not what I had expected.

Here’s what I realized:

1) First takes are for the recycling bin. When speaking in pubic (or in private in front of the camera), I never know what will come flying from my mouth – and about thirty second into the take, already I swore and gagged and ‘Ah!’ed at my lack of certainty. Despite having been a debater throughout high school [and in my marriage; many 'discussions' over 'where to eat, what to buy, why I'm right' have been won thanks to remembered high school debating skills ], this wasn’t an opinion to be argued, it was a defining moment in my life that, generally speaking, I keep tucked away in the ‘do not open’ drawer of my mind.

2) Always smile at the start of your video. Otherwise, as I’ve learned and have not corrected, YouTube will screen capture an image of you in mid-speech. Hmm.

3) The internet continues to impress me. I don’t attend cancer support groups(first thing the breast care nurse told me was, “well, you might not relate to our local breast cancer group. These ladies have all finished their treatment”). In fact, LookGoodFeelBetter was the first ‘in person’ support event I’ve ever attended. For a long time, I couldn’t handle other people’s stories. Instead I wanted to hide in my bubble of self-protective solitude, but over the past several months that has started to change. First I registered my blog (and my name) on twitter and began to follow similar survivors. Then I learned about the Tell Her Movement and came to facingcancer.ca. And now there is also ‘The Day I found Out’ – a site to watch survivors talk about the initial diagnosis (often referred to as the hardest time in a person’s cancer journey) and how they were able to cope. Sharing is powerful. The emotional weight of cancer can lighten when shared and with the internet there are no boundaries on community. From wig stands in Beirut, to meat-free Mondays in Ireland, twitter parties online (#tellhermovement),  poetry from Bothsides, helping children in Africa, advocating across Canada, healthy diets in America, and bumpyboobs in England – I’ve never met a more wide-spread support group of fantastic individuals. It’s great to finally have the strength to share. And before, when I wasn’t ready to join the conversation, it was good to be able to read, watch and listen.

4) When talking about diagnosis, many people also talk about their joys. What allowed them to get through chemotherapy? Their joys, their passions, their loves. And that is inspiring. You’d think this website would be depressing, but it’s not. It’s uplifting. And it goes to show, when faced with life or death decisions, we’re given the opportunity to utilize what really, truly makes us happy.  Did ‘the day you found out’ have a similar effect on your life?

5) Lastly, but most importantly, I learnt that these emotions are still alive within me, and probably won’t benefit from being ignored. This is something to work through, and now I know they’re still bubbling, I’m going to give them some attention to help that wound heal.

So that is my list. If you like, do check out the video and browse other people’s stories. This is a site filled with powerful emotion.

Follow this link to visit my video.

(PS. My husband took me away for a romantic rendezvous this weekend following a successful defence of his PhD. I’m back home now, having stopped at the hospital along the way to give blood for a test that will see whether I have any remaining eggs within my ovaries. Apparently they can measure this from hormone levels. Anyhow, we’ll see. That’s a story for another week.)

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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Easter musings and fertility after chemo

10 Feb

Monday morning. Have spilled orange juice all over myself, but thanks to a damp sponge and a (once) clean tea towel, have cleaned up mess. Weather: cloudy. Apartment: messy. Allergies: active. Temperament: A-okay, despite the orange flavour to my bathrobe.

I nearly forgot that Easter was coming. This year we’re staying at home – going nowhere—for the sake of Zsolt’s study habits and the impending viva.  But I will miss having an Easter with family. In Canada we go to my grandmother’s home (Bonjour Lulu!), or someone’s home in Quebec, and share a lunch. My family is comprised of cooks and bakers, and people generally produce excellent food. Like, lick your fingers and smack those lips excellent.  When we were younger (proper grandchildren rather than adult grandchildren) Lulu would always hand out these large chocolate bunnies with marshmallow filling. They were pretty to look at – I loved the idea of them, the idea of the chocolate and the bright pinks, yellows, blues on the wrapper . . .of a bunny who collects painted eggs and carries a blue tinfoil basket. . .  but could never bring myself to love the idea of marshmallow filling.

In Hungary, Zsolt’s mother will hard boil about two dozen eggs, and his sister will prepare the dyes out in the garden. Then we’ll sit around for an hour or two and dye the eggs. I love it. After you have your egg dyed with whatever colour arrangement you choose (all red, half red, half blue, some purple in between, or yellow and blue with a green band, etc) you take some pork fat and rub into the egg shell to make it shine. On Easter morning people crack into the coloured eggs, but Zsolt’s mom saves the prettiest ones from hungary fingers.

And speaking of eggs, I have a fertility appointment this week. Wednesday.  It’ll be a family gathering of sorts, in that it’s about family and there will be a gathering – just not of the Easter kind.  A good friend recommended I stop thinking about fertility and just give my body a break. Sound reasoning. It’s on my ‘to do’ list (along with some meditation). But first there’s this appointment.

People tell me that I have options. Okay, Catherine, you have options. The doctor last week very kindly told me that ‘it’s highly likely you’re period will come back’. It’s nice when the term ‘highly likely’ refers to something good.

There is this option of egg donation. Have you heard of it? Essentially, a woman donates an egg, and the recipient of the egg can have it inseminated with a man’s sperm (her husband’s or partner’s I assume), and that egg is then planted into the recipient’s womb. I guess it’s a bit like in vitro fertilization. And that’s where my knowledge stops. Are the chances of conception similar to in vitro? Would I need to take a load of drugs beforehand? Are women truly willing to give up their eggs?

Zsolt said, ‘well women lose an egg every month if they don’t conceive’, which is true. But for some reason, it feels entirely odd to imagine donating eggs. It feels slightly like donating a baby. But men have done this for ages – they have sperm banks for goodness sake, and I’m not sure they feel similar inhibition to the idea. Maybe that’s because it’s a generally accepted action for men (“go forth and procreate”)? Or maybe it’s because the process is far more invasive for women? I don’t know. If you had asked me two years ago if I’d like to donate some eggs to women who cannot conceive, there is a good chance I would have passed. But now, waiting for my period to return with crossed fingers, I’m starting to realize a different perspective.

Then there is the adoption option. Another murky area. The idea is very nice, and almost ideal if you cannot have children. Plus, you’re making a huge difference to a child’s life. Surprisingly – but of course, if you really consider it – a social worker friend told me that most babies/young children adopted are those removed from their families because the parents are deemed unfit. Of course, this doesn’t change the fact that adopting one of these children would be a blessing, but you can see how there are complications.

And then I guess there’s ovary stimulation? I really know nothing about this. For all I know, the doctor takes a giant feather and tickles a woman’s belly. But I’m guessing it involves hormones and drugs and all those little goodies I’d rather avoid.

Anyhow, Easter is coming, and I have trouble not thinking about my lack of menstrual cycle. All these baby chicks and lambs and horses – all my friends totting their beautiful children – it makes me wonder, will I be part of this?

Before cancer the answer was, ‘yes’.

After cancer (after chemo) the answer is, ‘hopefully’.

Right, back to Monday morning. Orange juice is under control. Time to make some breakfast if I can find a clean dish in this mess. Yesterday I made a fantastic meal of some curry chicken and soup. But fantastic meals leave me knackered, and I can never bother with the dishes immediately. As a result my flat looks like a culinary Armageddon.

But that’s okay.  And now, onwards with the day.

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.

Posted in breast cancer, chemotherapy, facingcancer.ca, fertility, life after cancer | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment