Cancer Ever After

Musings on Infertility, Adoption, Parenthood and Cancer

Can’t Be Sick All The Time

 

At times, it’s overwhelming to have three toddlers and cancer, but on other days it’s so damn wonderfully distracting.  My kids have very little clue what is going on with mama, and just want to play, and laugh and love.  Oh, and go to the park.  Every. Damn. Day.

Luckily, the weather is beginning to cooperate, and my energy levels are holding.

When I was diagnosed and scheduled treatments, there were a couple of events, I wanted to make sure I could do- major life events that I didn’t want cancer to take away from. A big one was Baby H’s birthday.  Birthdays are a big deal in my family.  With five kids, it was the ONE day, that was just for you.  It was my chance to be special.  I want my kids to have that too.

We went all out for the twins’ first and second birthday and Baby H deserved no less- I didn’t want cancer to take that.  But at the same time, I needed to be pragmatic.  There are limitations to my energy and time. My #1 must have, was me being able to make the cupcakes for his birthday. It’s something I love and something I can make just for him.

The problem was, when I originally scheduled chemo I was planning his party for the 26th, and that turns out to be Easter weekend, which meant the kids would miss out on Easter egg hunting- all of the kids, my nieces and nephews.  That’s just not right.  So we had to move the party – to the day after my newly revised chemo session.  And day 2 is a rough one.

My limitations were thrown in my face.  Chemo is what it is. I get tired. I get sick. I get through it, but not always well.  I didn’t want that to detract from Baby H’s big party.

My family knew how important it was to me (let’s face it- a first birthday is really more for the parents), and my sisters and mom all traveled down early to set-up and help me stage  an Old McDonald’s birthday party to die for.  I’ll be honest, it was better than anything I could have pulled together if I wasn’t sick.  It took many hands and ideas to make it special.

The most important thing, was the incredible turnout. 11 nieces and nephews, friends’ children.  The kids all had fun.

Baby H was held and loved and celebrated.  The twins loved the party and want to do it over and over again. After they go to the park, of course.

And for a short time, I forgot that I was sick.

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X-Rated

Give me a “Two”. Give me a “B”. Give me an “X”?

After the nurse shared the notes on the bone scan, we waited impatiently to speak to the ENT. After a week, we finally had our chance, and the meeting was a complete bust.

He confirmed that the tumor was about the size of a football and (previously) extended from my chin to below my heart basically. The PET scan also confirmed that the tumor did not extend below the diaphram or into the liver or spleen, which was definitely good news.  He too mentioned the bone activity, but refused to comment as to what this meant by stage – the oncologist was going to have to weigh in.

Another week of waiting.  We had actually scheduled our meeting with the oncologist as soon as the first biopsy came back and three weeks was the soonest we could get in.  The ENT kept plugging away at the necessary tests while we were waiting on that visit so that we could start treatment sooner once we were in with them.  And still.  We had to wait another week.

I googled, researched, we looked at the PET scan ourselves.  Everything we could find said that if it’s in the bones it’s stage IV.  We researched the different in treatments. If it was stage II, it was an “easier” chemo.  A chemo that tends to be better tolerated.  If it was stage IV the treatment was viewed as universally more difficult.

The difference in stage would make a world of difference in how I could take care of my babies.

Our visit with the Onc finally arrived. First he asked me a series of unending questions in detail about the symptom questionnaire I had filled out. Then he mentioned stage.  We held hands and our breath.  “You are difficult to stage. ” Not a good start.  “But I think we’re going to put you at IIB, because you appear to have some symptoms, and research has shown people with symptoms often need to be treated as if the cancer is more advanced.”

 IIB?

We were elated!  “The radiologist is going to have to weigh in as to whether or not your are considered an X as well, because your tumor is borderline.  I’d like to know more about your sed rate……..” I’m not sure I caught everything he had to say here. My mind was stuck on  STAGE II!!!! I finally worked up the nerve to ask about the bone activity.  The Onc explained with lymphoma it’s pretty common to see bone activity on the scan, but they look for signs of bone involvement.  Basically with bone activity the bones show up pretty evenly on the PET scan. With bone involvement there are bright spots in the bones that show active growth of cancer. Bone activity is normal, bone involvement is bad news.

Thank God.

We finally landed at me being stage IIBX for treatment purposes.  My tumor is slightly shy of the size requirements for “Bulky” which is the X, but because it’s borderline, they looked at my sed rate (rate of inflammation) and it was 29.  Over 30 would make me Bulky.  Basically neither the Onc or the Rad Onc was comfortable NOT treating me as if it were bulky, because if you under-treat and it comes back, you have much more difficult treatment options for a recurrence that are tolerated far less.

We are proceeding with caution when it comes to staging. The difference between just II and IIBX is an extra month of chemo and three weeks of radiation.  I’ll take it if it means the cancer will be gone.  I’d rather be cautious to avoid a recurrence.  It’s also not so much additional treatment that potential long-term effects increases exponentially.

As we left the appointment we were giddy, laughing and hugging each other. Stage II! Never thought I’d celebrate having Stage II Cancer, but celebrate we did.

 

 

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Where There’s Smoke

7 days prior to our scheduled induction date

In retrospect, I wonder if I somehow knew that something was going to happen. We’d been talking to our birth mother all week and she had definitely reached that point of pregnancy where absolutely everything hurt, sleeping was impossible, and she was begging for the baby to come out. I’m known for letting the battery run dead on my cell phone and I rarely have the ringer turned on because, well, twin toddlers. But this evening, I made a point to plug in the phone and turn the ringer up as high as it would go so that I would be sure to wake up if needed. We were nearing the end, and I read once that most labors start at night because that’s when babies are most active.

The call came at 1:30 a.m.

Our birth mother was in tears and said, “The pains are bad and I need to go to the hospital NOW–I think the baby is coming.”

I shot out of bed immediately and woke Tim up (quite possibly with an elbow to the kidney–oops!). I tried to stay calm and talk her through our plan of action.

“Do you have a bag packed?”

“How far apart are the contractions?”

”How long are they lasting?”

“Do you think you could eat something before you go to the hospital, because they won’t allow you any food after that.”

I promised to make sure her ride was there shortly and we hung up.

Of course it would be now. My mother had been coordinating all of the travel for our birth mother since she lives closer, but Mom was on a humanitarian aid trip to Panama–the first she’d ever been on. And now this.

We had a plan A, B and C for a ride in case this happened. Luckily, Plan A answered her phone immediately and said she could be there in 10 minutes. I called our birth mother back to let her know.

HOLY COW! We’re going to have a baby! I started to get super-excited! You’ve probably realized by now that I’m an over-organizer. All week, Tim and I had been packing “go-bags.” We had our master packing list for the girls that we lived by after our disastrous “no pack-n-play” trip and had packed their suitcases the night before. We had packed Baby H’s bag earlier in the week. We just hadn’t got around to packing ours. That was on the agenda for tomorrow.

My adrenaline was pumping. We frantically packed our bag and began calling people to see who could come over to stay with the girls. Since we were planning on an induction, most of our conversations with my husband’s family had involved them coming over to get them. Apparently, we failed to stress that a late-night phone call was a possibility. We called six cell phones and two home phones with no luck.

At this point it was 2 a.m. Our options were limited. Try to put the girls in their car seats and figure out childcare when we got there? Try to find someone else? Luckily, a friend had volunteered to be our late night call just one week before and I cockily stated, “My in-laws will take care of that.” But my friend had young children, so she was used to waking up in the middle of the night. I called her cell phone–no answer. I called her husband’s cell phone–pay dirt!

It’s the sign of a really good friend that she was there in fifteen minutes. We finished packing, grabbed the dog, and headed out the door. It’s a four hour drive to the hospital where she was going to give birth. Let’s just say we made it a little faster than that. Throughout the drive, we received text updates.

“Contractions are two minutes apart…”

“Now they are three minutes apart.”

We stopped at my mom’s house to drop off the dog and pick up the car seat for Baby H. In our rush, we forgot to call my stepdad and let him know we were stopping by. As it turned out, neither of us had his cell number (he and Mom don’t have a home number anymore). So we killed the headlights, crept slowly up the drive, and Tim quietly went into the house to retrieve the car seat after letting the dog out in the yard. After a few minutes, he was back with the car seat, and a little shaken up. We weren’t as stealthy as we thought, and Tim was met at the front door by my stepdad and his pistol. We now both have his number programmed into our phones!

Tim threw the car seat into the car and we were off to the hospital. Just as we pulled out of my mom’s driveway, we received a text saying: “Dilated to a four, but contractions are not progressing. They are sending her home.” Our driver for our birth mother was understandably freaked about driving 30 miles with her back to her house, but did it anyway.

We looked at each other, turned around, and crawled into bed at my mom’s house. We’d figure out things in the morning.

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