I've been trying to eat better since I was diagnosed. My cousin signed me up for an organic produce delivery service (Yum!) and I've been eating more poultry and fish and less red meat. And let me qualify this by saying that before all this I *loved* red meat. Would eat it everyday if I could. Burgers, steaks, lamb chops. Oh, I loved it all.
Since I stopped chemo I've noticed something weird. I don't want red meat anymore. The thought of it makes me feel a bit sick, actually. Which is really perplexing. Then, something equally as strange happened the other day; I got some fries, ate about 10 of them and then stopped. I just didn't want them. Who doesn't like fries?
Then, I read this today:
http://jama.ama-assn.org/cgi/content/short/298/7/754
It basically says that if you eat a diet high in red meat, fat and sugar you have a 350% greater chance of colon cancer reccurrence.
Woa.
I'm telling you folks, just pay attention to your body. It has more wisdom than you know.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
I like Chinese food, but Chinese food doesn't always like me
I think Chinese food is great. You get your protein, your veggies and your rice. What more do you need? Thousands of years and millions (billions?) of Chinese people can't be wrong.
Sometimes, though, the Chinese food doesn't love me back. (Sigh.)
You see, gentle reader, I am viciously allergic to MSG. If I eat even a small amount, perhaps a picogram, I get a migraine lasting for four or five days. If you don't know anyone who gets migraines I'll just say that a friend of mine once said that the only pain she's felt that comes close to that of a migraine is childbirth.
So, I generally steer clear of Chinese food. But really, can one be expected to live without it completely? No, the answer is clearly no.
Here begins my quest: find good tasting Chinese food delivery with no MSG. And not just one whose menu says "No MSG" because I can tell you many stories of charlatans and hucksters who claim "No MSG" but have poisoned me with their evil brew, nonetheless.
Last night, I dared to dream the impossible dream -- I ordered Chinese delivery.
It came quickly, 20 minutes or so, and smelled wonderful. I spooned out some Hunan Chicken and rice and put 2 potstickers on a small side plate. Then, I opened my mouth and shoveled it in. "Once more into the breech!" I cried as I dipped a potsticker in sauce and took a gigantic bite.
Then, I waited. If I was going to get a migraine I would start to get the auras (little visual hallucinations) about 30-45 minutes after the meal.
30 min passed. 40 min. 1 hour. No headache! I have found a Chinese restaurant that loves me back!
Hooray for Hunan Cafe #2!
Sometimes, though, the Chinese food doesn't love me back. (Sigh.)
You see, gentle reader, I am viciously allergic to MSG. If I eat even a small amount, perhaps a picogram, I get a migraine lasting for four or five days. If you don't know anyone who gets migraines I'll just say that a friend of mine once said that the only pain she's felt that comes close to that of a migraine is childbirth.
So, I generally steer clear of Chinese food. But really, can one be expected to live without it completely? No, the answer is clearly no.
Here begins my quest: find good tasting Chinese food delivery with no MSG. And not just one whose menu says "No MSG" because I can tell you many stories of charlatans and hucksters who claim "No MSG" but have poisoned me with their evil brew, nonetheless.
Last night, I dared to dream the impossible dream -- I ordered Chinese delivery.
It came quickly, 20 minutes or so, and smelled wonderful. I spooned out some Hunan Chicken and rice and put 2 potstickers on a small side plate. Then, I opened my mouth and shoveled it in. "Once more into the breech!" I cried as I dipped a potsticker in sauce and took a gigantic bite.
Then, I waited. If I was going to get a migraine I would start to get the auras (little visual hallucinations) about 30-45 minutes after the meal.
30 min passed. 40 min. 1 hour. No headache! I have found a Chinese restaurant that loves me back!
Hooray for Hunan Cafe #2!
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Fear Nugget
Today I am home in bed, sidelined by a cough/sore throat/fatigue-like amorphous sickness. Nothing serious - just a bug of some sort. Mildly annoying as I was supposed to take an overnight trip to the coast with a friend, but harmless overall.
I had been lying in bed with my cat, Gatsby, sleeping on my lap, reading one of those thrillers that cater to the ego of the intellectual but are really just high falutin' airplane books, when I felt a familiar tightening in my chest, somewhere just below my diaphragm. "Fear" I thought, "that's a feeling of fear." I stopped reading so I could pay attention to what my body was telling me. At first I assumed that the fear was a product of being alone in my house - I have a bit of a phobia of someone breaking into my home - but that didn't seem right. So I closed my eyes and opened my heart to what I was feeling. The fear surged and I understood.
Fear of sickness. My body was sounding the alarm.
Who knows what triggered it - my immune response, the pain of my sore throat, the act of lying in my bed all day reading - but my body knew. And it knew to be scared. As soon as I'd made this realization, the fear subsided and I welled up with tears. Grieving for the trauma that I've had to endure for the last year. Grieving for the fact that a slight cold set off the panic response. Grieving for the loss of naiveté of just having a little bug that will pass in a day or two.
All in all I think I'm making forward progress with my psychological and physical recovery. I've (mostly) passed through a period of intense depression that followed the chemo, I've had some very encouraging test results from my MRI and I've started exercising again. But then there are moments like this. Moments when the past infects the present, defense mechanisms sound the alarm and for a brief minute I am living the cancer again.
It reminds me of the Godfather, "Just when I thought I was out they pull me back in."
Or, as Quint says, "Bad fish! Not like going down to the pond and chasing bluegills and tommycod. This shark, swallow ya whole. Little shakin', little tenderizin', down you go."
Okay, I know... life cannot be summarized by movie quotes. But I still say Camus' got nothin' on "Jaws."
I had been lying in bed with my cat, Gatsby, sleeping on my lap, reading one of those thrillers that cater to the ego of the intellectual but are really just high falutin' airplane books, when I felt a familiar tightening in my chest, somewhere just below my diaphragm. "Fear" I thought, "that's a feeling of fear." I stopped reading so I could pay attention to what my body was telling me. At first I assumed that the fear was a product of being alone in my house - I have a bit of a phobia of someone breaking into my home - but that didn't seem right. So I closed my eyes and opened my heart to what I was feeling. The fear surged and I understood.
Fear of sickness. My body was sounding the alarm.
Who knows what triggered it - my immune response, the pain of my sore throat, the act of lying in my bed all day reading - but my body knew. And it knew to be scared. As soon as I'd made this realization, the fear subsided and I welled up with tears. Grieving for the trauma that I've had to endure for the last year. Grieving for the fact that a slight cold set off the panic response. Grieving for the loss of naiveté of just having a little bug that will pass in a day or two.
All in all I think I'm making forward progress with my psychological and physical recovery. I've (mostly) passed through a period of intense depression that followed the chemo, I've had some very encouraging test results from my MRI and I've started exercising again. But then there are moments like this. Moments when the past infects the present, defense mechanisms sound the alarm and for a brief minute I am living the cancer again.
It reminds me of the Godfather, "Just when I thought I was out they pull me back in."
Or, as Quint says, "Bad fish! Not like going down to the pond and chasing bluegills and tommycod. This shark, swallow ya whole. Little shakin', little tenderizin', down you go."
Okay, I know... life cannot be summarized by movie quotes. But I still say Camus' got nothin' on "Jaws."
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Dream a Little Dream
Last night I was lying awake at about 3am trying to will myself to sleep and letting my mind wander. I thought about my eggs in my one remaining ovary and the fact that, once released, they have nowhere to go now. No fallopian tube, no endometrium. I was struck by an image of my egg detaching from my ovary and slowly floating away into the extracellular space.
Whoop, bang! I suddenly had a very vivid memory of a dream I'd had during chemo.
I am an astronaut on a space walk outside my ship. I am performing some routine task when I get detached from the ship and gently pushed away. I watch as the space between myself and the ship increases very slowly. There is nothing I can do. Once I start floating away from the spaceship there is no way to "swim" back due to the absence or air pressure and there is no friction to slow down my motion. I panic. I know I'm going to die. I watch as the ship gets smaller and smaller until I am not sure if I can make it out at all and then it is gone. I think about what will happen to me and conclude that I will die of dehydration in a few days. (In the light of day I realize that I would probably suffocate or freeze first, but in the dream it's dehydration.) I look up at the stars and they are beautiful. Nothing but stars everywhere. No horizon, no spaceship, just points of light surrounding me. I realize that I have this amazing opportunity to just float among the stars for a few days, with nothing to do but soak in the sight of them. Since I'm going to die, I can just let go of everything else except the beauty of my starshow. And so I let go. The panic subsides. I am truly living in the moment for the first time ever. I have no future to worry about and no way to save myself. I am free to just gaze out for as long as I have left and look at this sight that most humans are not lucky enough to see.
Whoop, bang! I suddenly had a very vivid memory of a dream I'd had during chemo.
I am an astronaut on a space walk outside my ship. I am performing some routine task when I get detached from the ship and gently pushed away. I watch as the space between myself and the ship increases very slowly. There is nothing I can do. Once I start floating away from the spaceship there is no way to "swim" back due to the absence or air pressure and there is no friction to slow down my motion. I panic. I know I'm going to die. I watch as the ship gets smaller and smaller until I am not sure if I can make it out at all and then it is gone. I think about what will happen to me and conclude that I will die of dehydration in a few days. (In the light of day I realize that I would probably suffocate or freeze first, but in the dream it's dehydration.) I look up at the stars and they are beautiful. Nothing but stars everywhere. No horizon, no spaceship, just points of light surrounding me. I realize that I have this amazing opportunity to just float among the stars for a few days, with nothing to do but soak in the sight of them. Since I'm going to die, I can just let go of everything else except the beauty of my starshow. And so I let go. The panic subsides. I am truly living in the moment for the first time ever. I have no future to worry about and no way to save myself. I am free to just gaze out for as long as I have left and look at this sight that most humans are not lucky enough to see.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Technology tells no lies
Last week I went in for a pelvic MRI. I had a cyst in my one remaining ovary and they had done a CT scan, an ultrasound and finally an MRI to make sure that sucker was benign. The verdict was that I have several small follicular cysts - normal cysts involved in the ovulation process. Good news!
And for more good news... while I was in the MRI tube they did an abdominal scan to make sure everything looked okey-dokey. I am the proud owner of a healthy liver, pancreas, kidneys and I have no enlarged lymphnodes. Woo Hoo! I ran around the house screaming "Yay!" for about five minutes after I heard the news.
Hopefully this will calm my nerves a bit and help the achingly slow realization that I am cancer-free.
And for more good news... while I was in the MRI tube they did an abdominal scan to make sure everything looked okey-dokey. I am the proud owner of a healthy liver, pancreas, kidneys and I have no enlarged lymphnodes. Woo Hoo! I ran around the house screaming "Yay!" for about five minutes after I heard the news.
Hopefully this will calm my nerves a bit and help the achingly slow realization that I am cancer-free.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
"Never go up against a Sicilian when death is on the line!"
For your next sensitivity training seminar: How *not* to respond when someone tells you they have cancer.
Me: I just finished chemo for cancer.
Well-Intentioned Man on Phone (W.I.M.P.): Oh, I'm so sorry. My dad died of cancer.
Me: Oh, I'm sorry. I'm only 34, so I'm hoping that doesn't happen.
W.I.M.P.: Wow! You're young!
Me: Yes, I know.
W.I.M.P. : I hope you'll be okay.
Me: Thanks.
In case any of you out there are unaware, I already know that people die of cancer. In fact, I plugged in my details to an algorithm on the Internet and I know that I have a 17% chance of dying of cancer in the next five years. So, next time you run into someone who tells you of their diagnosis, perhaps your father's death is not the most comforting thing you could mention.
Just a suggestion, of course. ;-)
Me: I just finished chemo for cancer.
Well-Intentioned Man on Phone (W.I.M.P.): Oh, I'm so sorry. My dad died of cancer.
Me: Oh, I'm sorry. I'm only 34, so I'm hoping that doesn't happen.
W.I.M.P.: Wow! You're young!
Me: Yes, I know.
W.I.M.P. : I hope you'll be okay.
Me: Thanks.
In case any of you out there are unaware, I already know that people die of cancer. In fact, I plugged in my details to an algorithm on the Internet and I know that I have a 17% chance of dying of cancer in the next five years. So, next time you run into someone who tells you of their diagnosis, perhaps your father's death is not the most comforting thing you could mention.
Just a suggestion, of course. ;-)
Thursday, July 12, 2007
ESP of Purpose
Yesterday I got an email from the MLIS graduate program I had been attending last fall when I was diagnosed. It's enrollment time again. Which brings up the question that seems to be a theme with cancer survivors - what do I do now?
There's a bit of expectation that surviving cancer will transform you into a little Dalai Lama or Thoreau or Oprah - someone who sees more clearly than ever their "purpose" in life. Someone who has stared the beast down and now has some sort of strength unknown to mere mortals. And while there is a kernel of truth to this - anything that might have seemed daunting before would probably be a cakewalk now - I'm not sure that I have any better sense of purpose than I did before. I feel a bit like when an elementary school teacher says "not working up to her potential." But my potential for what? Do I need to be a phoenix rising triumphantly from the ashes or can I just step out of the ash pile, shake off my tail feathers and mosey on down the road?
I know all of these "expectations" are internal - this is not a new theme for me. I've always had periods of my life where I feel like what I'm doing is not enough. Although not enough of what, I'm never sure. So, when I start to feel like I'm not successful enough, I ask myself, "But, are you happy? " If the answer is yes, then I feel like I must be in a good place. I think the issue right now is that I'm not happy. I'm sure at some point I'll feel happy and grateful that I didn't die of cancer at 35, but right now, in the midst of lingering side effects and uncertainty of reoccurence I mostly feel bitter.
I know that the best thing you can do with any emotion is just let it take it's course. I don't place value judgments on "good" or "bad" emotions - they are all part of all of us. So I'll be bitter for as long as I need to. But you may want to stay a good 2 meters away until further notice. Or maybe dive right in and give me a hug. I dunno.
There's a bit of expectation that surviving cancer will transform you into a little Dalai Lama or Thoreau or Oprah - someone who sees more clearly than ever their "purpose" in life. Someone who has stared the beast down and now has some sort of strength unknown to mere mortals. And while there is a kernel of truth to this - anything that might have seemed daunting before would probably be a cakewalk now - I'm not sure that I have any better sense of purpose than I did before. I feel a bit like when an elementary school teacher says "not working up to her potential." But my potential for what? Do I need to be a phoenix rising triumphantly from the ashes or can I just step out of the ash pile, shake off my tail feathers and mosey on down the road?
I know all of these "expectations" are internal - this is not a new theme for me. I've always had periods of my life where I feel like what I'm doing is not enough. Although not enough of what, I'm never sure. So, when I start to feel like I'm not successful enough, I ask myself, "But, are you happy? " If the answer is yes, then I feel like I must be in a good place. I think the issue right now is that I'm not happy. I'm sure at some point I'll feel happy and grateful that I didn't die of cancer at 35, but right now, in the midst of lingering side effects and uncertainty of reoccurence I mostly feel bitter.
I know that the best thing you can do with any emotion is just let it take it's course. I don't place value judgments on "good" or "bad" emotions - they are all part of all of us. So I'll be bitter for as long as I need to. But you may want to stay a good 2 meters away until further notice. Or maybe dive right in and give me a hug. I dunno.
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