My Adventures in Cancerland | A Personal and Funny Cancer Blog

Advice for the newly diagnosed with the dreaded "C"

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 18:28:00 +0000

Right about now, you're probably worried, in limbo, wondering what lies in front of you. People close to you are all clamoring for more information, something that you might like to have yourself. But I can give you a little advice right off the bat, from someone who's been there.

1. Now is the time to be selfish, because you will be easily overwhelmed by the staggering amount of information & questions,that will come your way (and you'll have yourself). You will need to focus on yourself, your health and your treatment. Soon you'll develop email/phone fatigue where you'd rather people left you alone. Don't worry about it. People will need to understand that this is about you and not them, even if some hurt feelings arise. Learn to say "no" it will get easier with practice.

2. Look forward, and take one step at the time, since each thing you do will lead to the next.

3. Get a diary/log, and an accordion folder. Break it up with the following sections: Treatment; tests & results; appointments; general information, contact names, numbers/emails.

4. A great 1st step is to go into http://www.livestrong.org/ they have a treatment logbook - free (shipping charges apply) also here: http://www.livestrong.org/Get-Help for your particular options. For suggestions on getting yourself organized, see Organizing to De-stress a Major Illness.

5. Get these things in place now, before the whole ride starts. The first thing I noticed is how I should have hired a personal assistant for all the minutiae that needed to be addressed, and I needed to be reminded of.

6. Don't listen to idiots, they will come out of the woodwork now, spouting stories and advice that is idiotic or downright frightening or dangerous. Dunno why, but they are out there... Remember they are idiots and move on.

7. Let people help you. It was very hard for me to accept that I just couldn't do everything I wanted to, or that I had no energy or brainpower available to take care of things. I let things go, gave one apology and moved on. I stopped being a people pleaser, because I had to concentrate on what I needed to do. Selfish? Maybe. Lifesaving? Hell, yeah!

8. Whenever possible, have someone go with you when you see doctors. They will be another pair of ears, since you will end up forgetting what someone said, or, what you're supposed to do, when. It's a phenomena, the moment you hear something worrisome at a doctor's office, your hearing shuts down. Unfortunately, this doesn't happen when you need it to, like when you're being nagged by your mother or spouse. Oh well ... can't have everything.

9. Don't be afraid to ask questions of your Doctors. If they are going too fast, stop them and have them explain or repeat themselves. Remember, they went to medical school, not you; the visit is about YOU not them.

10. Update your emergency contacts.

11. Make and keep a list of all medications, vitamins and supplements you are take. How much and when you take them. Keep it on you, have a copy put in your medical file, and give a copy to someone else.

12. Make sure you have a Health Proxy in place, give a copy to your Doctor and keep a copy on you.

13. Lean on your friends and family when you need to. Take advantage of those connections. If you're comfortable with it, don't be secretive, you'll be surprised where the biggest help comes from. I was.

14. Sometime, it's hard to explain to people on the outside your fears, rational or not. It makes you feel vulnerable, weak and whiny. But, don't fret, you'll get through this. And oddly, there are benefits to it too. It's an unasked for metamorphosis, but one that will leave you a different person; a lighter, stronger one. A clearer focus on what is really important in life, the insignificant, falls away. There is clarity of purpose that comes with being an unfortunate member of this exclusive club; a wisdom that is hard earned and freeing. I don't regret having gotten cancer, because I feel better about many things. I don't hold grudges, waste time on people that don't deserve it. Time is too precious. I laugh a lot more, and enjoy everything I do, no matter how small. And when I can't, I remind myself how lucky I am.

15. Be strong and hopeful. You'll be fine. You're on a different ride at the amusement park now, but it's a journey that will surprise you at every turn. Like in the movie Ghost, love is what you take with you, the rest is unimportant.

16. For me, cancer was a giant boulder that fell along my trail in order to reroute me to what is really important, and to force me to change how I do things. You will have to take care of your health now. You will have to pay attention to what you put in your body (hey! Keep it clean, now) no more crap. Your body will need good fuel to help it, although the irony is that you will be attracted to crap more than ever.

17. The best advice is to not be scared, although you will be. I had two types of cancer at the same time - who knew? - and I'm here continuing to be as annoying as always. An over achiever in my 50s? Go figure. You're a member of an unwanted, not so exclusive, club now.

For those of you who have traveled this road, please feel free add your own advice. As the ones who have come before, we have a responsibility to those coming after us, to give all the support and advice we can - Hopefully, someday, we won't need to.

Cheers and stay strong!

Alp

(Please don't forget that the advice listed here is subjective to my own experience; you will need to determine for yourself what works for you. Hopefully something here will be of use to you, but remember that this is only advice)

'Magic Mushroom' Hallucinogen Might Help Cancer Patients

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 22:52:00 +0000

Oh yeah, man. Feeling groovy...

Study found it eased anxieties, lifted spirits in those with advanced disease.

Nora and Delia Ephron’s Love, Loss, and What I Wore

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 02:36:00 +0000

Jamie-Lynn Sigler

Helen Carey

I've never been a Fashion expert, nor a Neophyte, but today's amazing performance of Nora and Delia Ephron’s Love, Loss, and What I Wore, reminded me that we all notice clothes at some point in our lives, along with their related events. The play's various vignettes are relatable, entertaining and incredibly funny.

Victoria Clark

Nancy Giles

The play's talented cast will have you laughing within seconds of their entrance. No one attending will be immune to this likable cast. Bring your friends and run, don't walk, to see Love, Loss, and What I Wore. The moment you leave the theater, you will want to turn around and return to the warm bosom of these wonderful stories.

All of the cast was gracious and generous with their time, signing autographs & taking pictures with their demanding fans... (me)

Stacy London (What not to Wear) & me

Nancy Giles & me

Now this is a bag!

So I owe you all 3 more posts...

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Sun, 22 Jul 2007 17:52:00 +0000

So I owe you all at least 3 more posts, then I will leave the Blog up here for others to read. You never know, it might help someone to deal with the fright that is a cancer diagnosis.

In case some of you are worried about my lack of posts, rest assured I'm fine. In fact, better than fine. Just trying to get back to my schedule (writing in the early a.m.) which is turning out to be more difficult than I'd thought. I've reverted back to my younger body clock of being more awake in the afternoon, than the morning. So please bear with me.

Will write more soon.

Hmm... Chemo Brain no longer a myth...

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Sun, 06 May 2007 17:59:00 +0000

Here is a great article from the NY Times on this phenomenon...

Chemotherapy Fog Is No Longer Ignored as Illusion

Enjoy!

A

Holiday Message

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Sun, 24 Dec 2006 18:51:00 +0000

Dear Friends and Family,

I want to thank you for all the support and encouragement you have provided me with, throughout this difficult year. It has been rough on everyone but I made some wonderful discoveries through out it.

I've been reminded of how lucky I am and how many wonderful people surround me. Some, I've collected through the years, some I was born with and some came into my world of their own volition. I'm consistently reminded of the joys of life, most of all how fortunate I am to be here.

So I leave you all with my heartfelt thanks for every breath I take, and wish you all Health, Happiness and all the love you can withstand.

Remember to tell those close to you, how much they matter and mean to you. Don't wait for opportune times, because those times might not arrive until it's too late. Look at the bright spots in life, and don't dwell on the dark ones, because if you do, you'll miss all the light around you.

Greet everyone you care about, like a dog does. Without reservation and with abandon. Don't worry about feeling foolish, we all do foolish things sometimes, but greeting someone as if they were your sun and your moon is not one of them.

I'll be back with more adventures in January. For now, Have a wonderful holiday and a Happy New Year!

xxx

Annelise

Currently . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Wed, 25 Oct 2006 14:57:00 +0000

Currently . . .

My hair is coming back, albeit, with much gray and a Cruella DeVille white streak in the front. The eyebrows have returned; I guess they received the 'all clear' signal. The eyelashes have also made an appearance, although they seem a bit shell-shocked, since some of them are coming in striped (yes, I said, striped) ala Tabby Cat, and others look like a bunch of ZZZ, resembling crinkled Christmas tinsel.

In the remake of THE FLY, with Jeff Goldblum, Seth Brundel's DNA mingles with a fly’s, he then begins his metamorphosis. Brundelfly is what Jeff’s character begins to call himself as his inner fly (and I don’t mean fly, as in the common slang usage) makes its appearance. He is both the person going through the changes, and the clinical, scientific observer.

Since this adventure began, I’ve felt a bit like Brundelfly. I’ve been keenly interested in the changes I’ve undergone physically during this process, -- at once horrified and fascinated. I reside simultaneously inside and outside. I guess, I’m more curious than afraid . . . most of the time, anyway.

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

I'm Okay

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Fri, 22 Sep 2006 17:41:00 +0000

For all of those out there, who were worried about me: I'm okay.

The mastectomy was done on Wednesday, and I was released on Thursday (yesterday).

I feel fine. Other than some discomfort and having to remember not to lift anything heavy w/my right hand, I'm great.

Thank you all, for the sweet thoughts and kind gestures/flowers/food/cards that I've received. (Really. I am very lucky)

As I've said before, I feel I'm an incredibly lucky person. And I am reminded of that everyday. Having you all (those that know me) in my life has shown me that.

In lieu of flowers, feel free to donate to the American Cancer Society. As I've mentioned, Barbara is walking this year, and we are hoping to break some records! Here is her link for making a donation.

Again, my heartfelt thanks for all your support!

xxxx
Annelise

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Wed, 20 Sep 2006 02:25:00 +0000

Swoon

The Massage

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Wed, 20 Sep 2006 01:47:00 +0000

At the beginning of February an amazing client, and friend, gave me a Spa Gift Certificate.

Over the years, I had given massage certificates as gifts, as well. Some of the crazy fools never used them. Now don’t groan, you know who you are. I would not make that mistake.

I was ecstatic. I'd always wanted a professional massage. I know they are not for everyone, but baby, if you mentioned that a Yeti was coming to town to give me a massage, I’d be there before you could add, “... and he's bringing the Loch Ness Monster.”

I’ve dreamt of this for years but could never bring myself to book one. It felt too decadent; too self-indulgent. Now, with the certificate in hand, I had an excuse.

First, I needed a partner in crime, someone who was experienced at this and could guide a neophyte, like me, through the spa routine. I didn’t want to appear a total moron. I’m not vain about my looks, but I do care about looking as if I don’t know something.

I recruited my friend, Martine. She’s cosmopolitan. Looks like she knows what she’s doing and can navigate around spas with ease. Plus she knows what an idiot I can be. I could ask her stupid questions and not feel embarrassed.

Picking a time became a problem early on. Between my chemo, weakness and general unreliability, I could not commit to a date. Once I got on the light chemo, I realized this was my opportunity, before my surgery.

Martine made the appointment at a well-known day spa. They had an opening. She booked a 75 minute massage for the both of us. I was thrilled. An entire hour, with a bonus 15 minutes! The only hitch was that my masseuse would be male. I had hoped to start with a female, since I felt a bit bashful; surprising, I know, in light of the fact that I now regularly paraded topless at many doctor’s offices, without any shame.

We arrived separately. Outside, the rain came down with a violence that hinted at someone ’s vain attempt at washing New York down. Inside, the staff went about their business, among the muted, scented greys and chrome, unaware of the deluge outside. The new age music piped softly trough the hidden speakers. Everybody whispered. I don’t do well in venues that encourage whispering.

I walked up to the front desk.
“Checking in?” The attendant asked. How quaint, like a hotel.
“Yes. I’m here for a massage. I have a reservation.”
“What type of massage will you be having today?” She asked.
“What types are available?”
She listed the options. I decided to start with the basic. “Swedish, please.”
She handed me a chart. It looked an awful lot like the charts you get at doctor’s offices.

Diseases? Allergies? Medications? Why, this was the doctor’s questionnaire! I checked off the necessary boxes, realizing that, on paper, I was not the ideal massage client. I wondered if I’d scare the masseuse off. I’d have to mention that he was to avoid the port area, and, because of the tube running up the left side of my neck, he’d have to stay away from the left side of my neck and shoulder. Oh. He’ll be delighted. I was sure.

Martine arrived and after we checked in, the girl gave us a tour of the facility. Subdued and tranquil, in a corporate way. She pointed out the TRANQUILITY ROOM. A circular room, with lights so dim, you could pass yourself off as Michael Jackson, Mahalia Jackson, Samuel L. Jackson or anyone other Jackson in your whimsy. The scent of flowers wafted through the air, enhancing the mood. Circular seating adjoined the walls. Various clients, sat whispering, in their robes.

“This is where you can relax, read something . . .” I noticed magazines arranged discreetly around the area. How anyone could read in this light, was beyond me. She then lead us to the locker room. There she gave us soft, white robes and plastic slippers.

“You can change, then go through there and wait to be called.” She pointed to a curtain across the hall. “Afterward, you can shower. We have everything you need here: towels, soap, brushes, creams... Whatever you need." I needed a better body. Did she have that? "Through there is the sauna.” She pointed toward the showers. I looked over. A naked woman laid prone on the other side of the glass door. I guess it was a sauna for one.

Once in our bathrobe and slippers, we walked to the tranquillity room. A moment after we got there, Martine was greeted by her masseuse. She looked back at me. “Bye, see you later!” and she disppeared giddily through the curtain. She was ready. I was nervous.

I few minutes later, Don, my masseuse, appeared. A coffee complected, young man with dreadlocks.
“Hello . . . Annelise?” He has a soft, modulated, accent-less voice. Appropriate for this place.
“That’s me!” I said, a bit too brightly and loud. Fortunately, the heavy carpeting didn't allow my voice to echo.
“Just follow me.” I did, right into a room lit by candlelight. A massage table sat at the center. I was disconcerted by how dark and romantic the room looked. Why that would bother me, I haven’t a clue.

Don handed me a towel and asked that I remove the robe, lay on the table and cover myself with the towel. He turned to leave.
“Wait!” He turned back.
“Yes?”
“I need to go over certain areas that you have to stay away from.” I said.
“Sure.”
I listed the caveats. He nodded, smiling and said, “No problem. We’ll start on your back first. Just lay face down.”
He then left. I took off the robe and got on the table, clumsily turning myself over and hoping the legs on the damn table would hold. I’m no lightweight, and ever since getting cancer, I’ve gained – yes, I said, gained – 25 lbs. Can you imagine? Where is the benefit of cancer? Everyone I know that got cancer, lost weight. No. Not me. Go figure.

The table wobbled wildly as I maneuvered above it. Please don’t let him come in while in the midst of my gyrating, I prayed. Finally I settled on the table, but then had to find a way to lay the towel over my back without toppling off. I laid it haphazardly and hoped for the best. It barely covered anything. Don returned.

“Okay. You ready?” I felt like a virgin, when I whispered, “Yes.”

He arranged the towel on my back, properly, then began to massage over the towel. It felt great.
A few minutes later, he walked over to the side table. A small bottle sat among the candles. He coated his hands with oil.
He began by massaging my calves. As great as that felt, I realized, a bit sadly, that my decreased sensitivity was affecting my level of enjoyment.
Ever since I began my treatment, I’ve lost a great deal of feeling and sensitivity all over my body. The fingers in my left hand have very little feeling left. This came in handy when I slammed the security door over my finger a month ago. The finger was cut and swelled immediately, but I was grateful for the numbness, because I felt very little pain. Now I was not so grateful. The massage felt good, but I knew in past years it would have felt great.

The silence and pleasant scent, made me begin to praddle. Silence, a man stroking my back, candlelight ... Well, you get the drift. Nerves became the name of the game. And, in my current state, as I wrote about in the “Train of Thought” entry, the praddle was non-stop, wildly all over the place, and exhausting. I felt bad for Don, but I could not stop myself. Halfway through the session, Don turned the music on, and got the hint. I immediately turned my chatter off. That only lasted a few minutes. I felt the words desperately trying to make the way out, and although I tried to refrain -- mightily, I might add -- they began to flow again. Poor guy. I think he was relieved when the session ended.

I felt good. I was sure the next time I’d do better.

Martine waited for me in the Tranquillity room. I sat next to her.

"Well? How was it?" She asked.
"Great." I said.
“I could hear you talking the entire time.” She said.
“No! Through the walls?”
“Yup.” How embarrassing.
We chatted some more then forgot to whisper.
From across the room, a middle aged white man, very corporate looking, spoke up:
“I’ve been wondering if I should say something . . . but . . . I feel I must. This is a room for silence. Calm. The spa experience is tranquil, about relaxation . . .”
“You’re right. We apologize.” I piped up, before Martine could give him a piece of her mind.
“. . . This place is for relaxing. I come here to rest . . .” He continued, unabated.
Martine said something to him I didn’t hear. Not as placating as me, I was sure. I apologized again. Finally he stopped pontificating.

Now we all sat in silence -- awkwardly. Martine got up, got some dried fruit from one of the side tables and sat at the other end of the room. I knew why she did it. If she had remained next to me, we would have started talking again. Now I sat staring out, feeling like a chastized five-year old, wondering what to do with myself, since it was too dim to read.
Five minutes went by, then the guy’s masseuse came out to get him.
What does he say? “Uh. I need to use the bathroom first.” All that time sitting there like a stone, taking the time to lecture us, he could have used the bathroom! Tsk. Tsk.

Overall, it was a great experience. The next time I will be prepared and duct tape my mouth.

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

PILL-O-RAMA

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Tue, 19 Sep 2006 16:45:00 +0000

One pill makes you smaller... one pill makes you larger... (Jefferson Airplane)

“Step right up, kids! Right this way... Come and see the magic pills. That’s right, an amazing Kaleidoscope in every size and shape! Step right up, that’s right, folks... that’s right... come this way... On the other side of this curtain lie the smallest and most powerful tools in the alchemist’s bag. Guaranteed to confuse and delight you. A treasure trove of emotion sure to leave you feeling like a feeble, disoriented, bloated mess. Ah, but you’ll thank me for it.”

That’s how I felt at the height of my pill taking. This is the regiment I was on during the worse part of the chemo:

Clarinex - every night. Helps with my allergies.

Aciphex - Every night. Helps with the uncontrollable acid the chemo caused.

Warfarin, commonly known as Coumadin - Every night. To ward off a blood clot that having a port might cause. There is no scientific or statistical data that the coumadin actually helps, or that without it I might get a clot, it’s just a precaution.

Melatonin - Every night. Not prescribed. It helps me to sleep.

One day before chemo the following are added:

Emend - Every morning, for three days. To help with Nausea that the chemo causes. (Didn’t help, but I took it anyway)

Temazepam - After chemo, as needed. To help me sleep. No Melatonin then.

Benadryl - as needed. After chemo. To offset the any allergic reaction caused by chemo, and to keep my body from reacting too badly.

Dexamethasone - A steroid, on the day of chemo, then for 3-4 days after the chemo, to prevent a reaction. These were usually tricky because I had to take 2 on the first and second day, then one for two more days. I did, however, have unlimited energy and never felt better. I completed many projects on only three hours sleep, all of them while talking up a storm. Sadly, as my body got used the steroids, the positive effects wore off, never to return.

Neulasta - 24 hours after the end time of chemo. Via injection. To boost white cell count.

Tylenol - As needed. To bring down slight fever sometimes caused by the chemo and shot to boost the white blood cell count.

Fluconazole - Every morning for 10 days at the onset of symptoms. To fight off the fungal infections that frequently developed after chemo, represented by beautiful, internal mouth sores. If a sore developed -- sometimes they showed up in the back of the throat -- I was to begin immediately taking this. Since I could never remember the proper name for the drug, I took to calling it, FUKITOL. Close enough.

Antibiotics, various - As prescribed. Usually taken for 7 to 10 days. These were suggested when those annoying sores would turn out to be an actual sore throat. Prevention is the key to staying healthy, you know.

This does not take into account all the various vitamins I was, and am, taking on my own:

Milk Thistle for liver health and to help the liver detoxify; Vitamin C; B Complex; A Multi-vitamin; Quercetin Complex for lung health - prevents my cough; CosaminDS - Glucosamin Chondroitin Sulfate for my arthritis; CoQ-10, for the same reason as the Cosamin.

Now that I’m on the lighter chemo, I only take the Clarinex, Benadryl, Aciphex and Melatonin, along with the vitamins I listed above.

When my friend, Evelyn, went through the same breast cancer, and treatment, four years earlier, I didn’t realize how prophetic her words would be:

“Geez,” she said. (I’m paraphrasing) “The first thing they should tell you, when you have cancer, is that you’re going to need a personal assistant!” Truer words were never spoken.

Thank you, Barbara.

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

Breast in Show

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Thu, 07 Sep 2006 14:26:00 +0000

On September 20th, 2006 I am scheduled to have a mastectomy on the right breast.

Now don’t anyone fret. It’s a day I knew was coming and you know what? I am not worried. I am not sad. I have no particular feelings on the subject other than to state, once again, that this does not bother me.

My lack of anxiety have disturbed others though. Like the subject of the hair (see earlier posts) the fact that I am losing a breast is deeply disturbing to some. That I am not upset about it, bothers them even more.

Like my hair, my breasts do not make me feel more female. I’m glad they were given to me, but they are not necessary. They are not an arm, a leg or an eye. I don’t need them to walk or to write with, although that would be a pretty funny sight. I can hear perfectly fine with or without them. They don’t help me to think, even though some would credit them with helping others not to think. I am not breast-feeding anyone – that I am aware of – and I don’t use them to do any housework. I don’t play the piano with them or paint: although if Jackson Pollock, had them, he might have gotten creative with them. I am no Jane Russell. (see right)

I liken my situation to that of a plane about to crash because it’s overloaded. If my body was that plane, the pilot – that would be me – would have to toss something out of the plane in order to survive. Well, I’d hate to toss out an arm, a leg, or any other appendage. What to do? The first thing out of that hatch, kids, would be a breast. You betcha. Maybe I’d toss both. They are simply flotation devices and, at my age and stage in life, not worth risking my life.

Everything in perspective, kids.

Live in the present, for the past is gone and the future has yet to arrive. You only have the present. The now. The right in front of you. If you spend all your time looking back, you’ll miss it . . .

. . . not to mention you might walk into a pole.

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

Barbara is doing the Cancer Walk on October 15th, 2006

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Tue, 05 Sep 2006 14:18:00 +0000

I have to say I'm impressed. Barbara is going to be doing the American Cancer Society's Cancer walk on October 15th, 2006. I will be joining her if I feel up to it. She's going to be part of the Juniper Park Dog Owner's group.

Here is the link to her fundraising page, if anyone wants to contribute. I will say, now that I'm at the other side of the looking glass, I've seen first hand all the great resources the the ACS make available to cancer patients. From providing wigs - some say much nicer than those you buy, to research and support, they are truly a wonderful group.

Cheers.

Again, if you wish to donate, here is her link

What Happens When the Train of Thought Derails Into a Stream of Consciousness?

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Mon, 04 Sep 2006 23:48:00 +0000

Since the time that I began receiving steroids along with my chemotherapy, I noticed an increase in the amount of talking I do. Now, for those of you that know me, that may be a horrifying thought. For a time, I subjected those that love me -- and those that like me only a little -- to a barrage of non-stop chatter. I expected that effect to wear off once I got off the steroids. Not so.

The Chemo I’m receiving now, and will be getting for the next eight months, is made up of only Herceptin, Benadryl and a Saline drip. Yet, I still ramble - incessantly. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, I can’t stay on topic for more that a few seconds.

As I’ve been told, it’s not the volume of speaking that is a problem, but the way I race through topics. Like a crazed housewife on a 30 second winning spree through a supermarket, I stay on a topic only long enough to demonstrate that I actually had a thought. To make matters worse, there are no pauses between thoughts or subjects. Although, to be fair, in my mind there are.

A conversation might now go something like this:

Neighbor: Hey, how are you?
Me: Fine. You? (So far, so good)
Neighbor: Great. Say, have you seen the gardeners this week?
Me: I think they were here yesterday. (looking down at the front lawn) Dang, I have to weed. (Noticing my neighbor’s feet) Say, are those new shoes? Can you believe all the rain we’ve had? Soon we’ll have to get the Ark out of the garage. Hey! Did I tell you that I submitted an article to the New York Times? That reminds me, did you see the article in there yesterday about the dog run? It was in the City section, I think. The paper is getting too expensive, I might have to cut back my subscription, but I hate to do all my reading online. I’m so pooped at night I barely stay awake long enough to read a paragraph. Have you read THE CELL, by Stephen King? A grabber from the get-go. I should get my eyes checked. In fact, I should also make a dentist appointment at the same time. Look! Bob and Ruth are back! (Off I go, leaving my poor neighbor dizzy and slack-jawed)

And yet, I hear the pauses. But maybe, like the sound of a dog whistle, only I can hear them.

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

Is it hair or is it Memorex??? Only her hairdresser knows for sure.

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Mon, 04 Sep 2006 17:20:00 +0000

Who am I kidding? I don't have a hairdresser - that should be obvious . . . I hired a gardener.
. . . And why is there gray in it?

New Chemo

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Thu, 08 Jun 2006 13:27:00 +0000

Along with my great Oncologist, there are two very important people without whom I could not do without: Nellie and Patty, the nurses in the Chemo Unit. These women are the most competent, caring and compassionate nurses I’ve encountered. They have a difficult job that on the surface seems relatively easy. To the untrained eye they might seem like overly-trained babysitters to anywhere between one to twelve chemo patients at one time. But in reality, this is a very stressful job that barely allows for bathroom or lunch breaks. Our lives and well-being are in their hands. Here is my process from the moment I enter the room.

I walk in and someone will ask what recliner I’d like. I scan the room to see if I know anyone. If I don’t recognize anyone -- and here it gets dicey, since chemo brain has allowed for very embarrassing moments, where once seated I hear from across the room, “Hey, how are you doing? How did the last chemo go?” These words come out from, what a minute before was, a total stranger.
Once seated, the nurses will ask me if I want a pillow or a blanket, I reply yes to both, having learned from past experience, that once the fluids start to flow I will get cold.
They bring both, along with all the IV bags, needles and tubes. They hook up the saline drip along with the Taxotere, steroids, and Benadryl filled bags. An additional bag of saline awaits along with a bag of Herceptin for later. All this is done in a quick and experienced manner. Once all the bags and tubes are ready, they sterilize the area over the port opening on my chest. They have to be very careful since if the area is not sterilized properly, an opportunistic infection can enter here and go directly to the heart, do not pass go, do not collect $200, since the opening leads directly to that fine muscle.

When they are ready they will ask me to take a deep breath. I do and they insert the needle in the port, which stings a bit, but is not awful. Once this is done, they run some saline in though a syringe and then pull some blood out to make sure the port is clear and not clogged. Then they set up the various drip speeds.
The Taxotere has to be administered though a machine that monitors the exact amount of drops being given. This is a strong drug which is carried into the bloodstream via another drug – can’t remember the name – that some people are violently allergic to.

Before the first treatment on this regiment, I asked my doctor what possible side effects I might experience. After listing a whole slew of interesting ones, some of which I’ve mentioned in previous postings, she blurted the last one very quickly, in a strange muffled and rapid patter, following it with a faster-still disclaimer and a nervous laugh. But I had heard the name of the last side effect: Death. Yup, that last side effect was a killer.

“I’m sorry, did you say Death?” I asked.
“Oh yes. Some, not many, can have an allergic reaction to the Taxotere. Well, not the Taxotere, but the agent (drug/chemical) that it has to be paired within the IV.” She giggled nervously. “But don’t worry. It’s rare. And we test it first. We give you a few drops first to determine if you are allergic to it. If you are, we stop immediately.” I should hope so, I think to myself.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” She added, confidently, more to herself, than to me, I think.
Should death be considered a side effect? Isn’t that rather final? I have a sneaking suspicion that side effects are reactions that are treatable and, some times, reversible. I’m pretty sure DEATH is not a side effect. I can hear the conversation now. “Your daughter is doing great, other than having suffered a bit of DEATH, she’s fine.” Then the mother hits the floor. Hard. Out cold.

But I digress. After I was hooked up, they brought over additional equipment which had never come over to my side of the room before. Oxygen and various resuscitation equipment. To some, this might have been reassuring, but I was suddenly filled with a sense of dread.

Nellie gave me the stats. “We’re going to first run the test. We’re going to give you 20 drops of the Taxotere. If you start to feel warm or begin to have trouble breathing you’ve got to tell us right away. We’ll stop everything immediately.”
“Okay.”
“Seriously, if you feel anything out of the ordinary, you’ve got to to tell us.”
“Will do.”
“Really.”
“Gotcha.”
“Okay. Here we go.” She said. And the drip began.

Next to me sat Edna, another chemo patient. She’s on the same treatment I’m on. She has the same type of breast cancer as I have and the same Oncologist. She’s one treatment ahead of me w/the Taxotere, so she went through this last time. She turned to me.
“Really. Make sure you tell them if you have any strange sensation.” She said.
“You did okay with the Taxotere. Right?” I ask, hopefully.
“Uh-huh.” Nodding in the affirmative.
I sit back and try to relax.

At this point I should mention another lovely thing chemo does: it fries your ovaries. Two years before all this started, I had a hysterectomy, because they had found pre-cancerous fibroids. The surgeon took out the cervix and uterus but left my ovaries intact, at my request. I didn’t want to slam into menopause if there was no need to. I wanted to slide into it gracefully. When I was diagnosed this January I wasn’t even in peri-menopause. Now the chemo was cooking those salvaged ovaries, giving them to me medium-well, with a side of bacon, please – Thank you. I was on the fast track, on my own personal Slip-n-Slide to menopause. And I was feeling the effects. The main one being: Ta-da! Hot flashes. All the time. Now you might think that I hate the hot flashes, but you’d be wrong. I love them. They are great, because, other than the instant bathing of myself in sweat - which is not that big deal when you have no hair - they, themselves, have a side-effect which fits into one of my many famous theories. Let me explain.

For some time now, I’ve been aware of an interesting curiosity: when we come in from extreme temperatures and our body temperature regulates, we become sleepy. For example, if we are very hot, such as in summer, and we enter an air-conditioned room, as our body’s temperature begins to regulate, we get drowsy. The moment our temperature hits normal, we fall out. The same happens in reverse. If we come in from the cold into a warm room and our body temperature goes back to normal, we get sleepy as well. I think it’s the body’s way of giving a contented sigh. It relaxes and exhales a luxurious, comfortable sigh that knocks us cold.

The hot flashes work the same way for me, especially since the vast majority of them occur during the night. I’m a light and restless sleeper. I wake up frequently during the night. A perfect example of this is that I’m writing this at 3 am. But when I awaken and get a hot flash, I push off all the covers, wait for my body to cool down, and when it does – voilá – I fall back to sleep instantly. A miracle wrapped in one sweaty little package.

Okay, so back to the chemo room.
A half hour goes by, during which Nellie and Patty watch me very carefully.

Edna asks, “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay, so far. My ears a little warm, though. I think I’m getting one of my hot flashes.”
At that, the room goes deathly still.
“You’re getting warm?” Patty asks, alarm evident on her face.
“Yes. But I think it’s a hot flash. I can feel it starting in my stomach. From there it runs up through my scalp and to the back of my neck. This is very familiar to me.”
“You’re getting warmer?” Patty asks again, this time more urgently. She looks over to Nellie.
“You see. Your hot flash is exactly like the allergic reaction. You’d feel the same warmth.” Nellie says.
“I think it’s a hot flash.” I insist, less sure now, but hoping.
The room tenses now and you can feel it.
Patty looks to Nellie for confirmation on how to proceed.
“We’re going to put you on Oxygen and continue for two more drops. We’ll watch.” Nellie says.
“How many drops have I gotten so far?” I ask.
“Fifteen.” Fifteen? Only fifteen in a half hour? Wow.
They attach the oxygen tank through a nose tube. It feels wonderful. Cool and exhilarating. The effect of which dissipates the hot flash immediately, since it brings my temperature back to normal. Now I’m sleepy.

“How are you feeling?” Asks Nellie.
“Great.” I say, although I’m tempted to lie so I can have the oxygen longer. A sigh of relief travels through the room. Shoulders sag back into normal positions, creases disappear from their brows. Even Edna sits back, comfortably. A few minutes of terror all over in a few minutes. In my favor, thank God.

A bit longer and Nellie announces:
“Twenty. You’ve gotten the twenty drops. You’ve passed the test. Now we can proceed with the regular chemo.

How worried were they? I can tell you that a few seconds after Nellie made that announcement my oncologist came bounding into the room. “You passed the test! You passed the test!” She giddily announced with a huge smile. Then she gave me an approving nod and left the room. She must have been in her office biting her nails the whole time. Whew! Who knew...

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

The Meg Ryan Incident

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Thu, 08 Jun 2006 12:41:00 +0000

First, a disclaimer. This story is not about Meg Ryan, the actress. It’s about Meg Ryan, the look-alike. Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t want to mislead. If I should ever have a story about the real Meg Ryan, I promise to post it. My apologies to all who were expecting dirt on the ‘real’ Meg.

Back in January, 2006, a couple of weeks after all this started, I was scheduled for an appointment with Admissions at the hospital. This was a couple of days before my first lumpectomy on the right breast. During the visit, the Admissions clerk took all my information: DOB, allergies, emergency contacts, etc. After that, I was sent back out to wait for the Intake Nurse to see me. This would be the person that would have me sign all the consent forms and take a detailed medical history.

A petite, perky blonde with a clipboard called my name. I followed her back to a small office where she introduced herself. She was the spitting image of Meg Ryan, if Meg Ryan had actually let herself age gracefully, that is; without awful cosmetic surgery and collagen uber-lips. She was maybe 45, had the same great Meg hair and cheerful smile. I liked her immediately, although that would change.

She started with the first question.

“Okay. What are you here for?”
“Surgical biopsy of the right breast.” I replied. “They suspect breast cancer.” I added helpfully.
At the mention of breast cancer, she looked up sharply. “Breast cancer?” She looked thoroughly alarmed. “My mother died of breast cancer. Five years ago.”
“I’m so sorry!” I said. Feeling bad for reminding her of that tragedy and wondering if that’s a great thing to bring up to someone just starting on this journey.
“Well actually she died of the Tamoxifen. They gave it for seven years and it eventually killed her.”

Now I should mention that Tamoxifen is given to some breast cancer patients, usually those with estrogen-receptive cancers, (which I do not have) to prevent a recurrence of the cancer. The new protocol is to take it for a maximum of five years. I guess that protocol was not in place when Meg’s mother was taking it.

“Any history of cancer in your family?”
“None. Not on either side.”
“Really?” She looked up and shook her head with sadness. Her eyes immediately welled up, big and brown. Irrationally, I was reminded of the Bugs Bunny cartoons, where Bugs or Daffy would suddenly develop large, teary eyes whenever they were in danger or wanted something. Meg’s eyes were now exactly like that.
“Oh. I’m so, so sorry.” She said, patting my hand for comfort. “You know, there are great support groups out there for cancer victims.”
“I’m okay. I’ve got a great group of friends and family supporting me. I’m good with this. I’m in good spirits. Upbeat, actually. If I feel the need to go to a support group, I won’t hesitate. But for now, I’m good.”
She looked down at her questionnaire and continued, all the while shaking her head and sighing.

“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“Drink?”
“Occasionally some wine, with a meal.”
“That’s fine.”
“Allergic to any medications?”
“Codeine.”
“Anything else?
“Nope.”

She looks up at me again, her eyes still moist. “How are you doing, really?”
“I swear I’m okay. I deal day-to-day. I had my moments when I first heard. But I’ve come to terms with this.” I said.
She looked at me sadly, tsking, tears brimming and threatening to spill. She seemed to be expecting, or wanting, something more from me.

“Really. I’m good.” I added.
“My mother went through so much...” She trailed off. “Remember, there are groups you can go to.”
“I know.”
She continued taking my history. Peppering her writing with sad glances at me and intermittent sighs, accompanied with shakes of the head.

I crack a joke trying to lighten the mood. She looks at me and says, “I don’t think you’ve absorbed this yet.” The gall of this woman, I think. That she hasn’t gotten over the death of her mother, is obvious. The irony is, her mother didn’t die of breast cancer, but Tamoxifen poisoning. I think she needs a support group.

Thankfully, the interview finally ends. She stands up and looks at me as if this will be the last time I’ll be on this earth, as if she is reading my epitaph. Her look tells me she thinks I’m silly, that I don’t get the gravity of the situation, that I’m deluded. All this is conveyed and evident on her face. The only thing that would give her comfort is me breaking down into a mess of tears, babbling about my fears and how - dear God - I’m gonna die. She seems to be sure of it, anyway.

“Good luck.” She says with a large, sad exhale. In a second I’m out of there looking for some sane, fresh air.

Fast forward a month.

By now I’ve had the first lumpectomy, and only two days before I had my port inserted. Now I’m in the outpatient surgical wing, for the third time, to have a surgical biopsy on my left breast.

By now I know everyone in the area. I greet people, as I come in, by their names (this only worked before my chemo brain.) I ask if I can place my clothes in the usual locker (number 14) and go to the usual curtained cubicle. I saunter confidently through the area, making it my own. Once in my surgical gown and shower cap, with my little booties on, I lay on the Gurney. Barbara sits beside me. We turn on the tv to Ellen and adjust the arm it’s on so we can both watch the screen.

One of the nurses comes in and asks me if I stopped by admissions to check in. I say no. I was told that since I had a procedure here only two days before, I could forego the admission procedure and go straight up to the Outpatient floor.

“Hmm. Nope. You still need to sign consent forms. No problem. We’ll have someone come up.”

I’m relieved. The last thing I want to do is travel around the lobby in my gown and booties. I have no reputation to destroy – did that, years ago – but even I have limits.

In a few minutes I look through the gap in the curtain and catch a flash of blonde hair and a clipboard. I know immediately what I’m in for.

“Watch this.” I whisper quickly to Barbara.

The curtain parts and in enters Meg. She doesn’t look up immediately but I await expectantly for the moment.

“Okay... Let's see here... hmm... I just need some information...”

She looks up...
Our eyes meet...
And freezes...
as if Medusa had given her the look. She lets out a long, “Ohhhhhh..... It’s you.” An expulsion of air so long that I almost expect her to fold into the floor like an empty leaf bag.

“Hello.” I say, cheerily.
“Why are you here?” She asks, alarmed.
“They want to check my left breast.”
“Oh.” Then, after a second, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. They’re just being careful.”
She shakes her head. I’m so familiar with that shake by now, that I can not only anticipate it, but have to stop myself from mimicking her. Her eyes are once again welling up.

I introduce Barbara.

“Have you joined a support group yet?”
“Nope. Still good.”
“I guess your history hasn’t changed, then. I can copy what we had before.” A haughty tone has crept into her voice, now.

She hands me some forms to sign. Then she stops what she’s doing to say, “I don’t think this has sunk in yet.” Haughty, haughty, haughty. And yes, a bit of disapproval has now joined the haughtiness. The more she disapproves of my behavior, the cheerier I become. I can’t help myself.

I can see that Barbara is getting indignant now, so I cut in before she says something that will make her leap over the Gurney to strangle the woman.

“Look. I certainly know what I’m in for. It’s definitely sunk in. I’ve done plenty of research and have friends who have gone through this so, believe me, It’s definitely sunk in.” I hoped that would be the end of it. But now, a new tone has set in: anger. The damn look-alike is actually angry with me for not falling apart, for holding off the gloom, for not succumbing to her fatalistic attitude. I shake my head this time.

“I’m fine.” I say.
“Allright, if you say so.” And with that she wishes me good luck and leaves in a huff.

“Wow.” Barbara says. “You were not exaggerating.”
“My dear, by now you should know that I never do.”

And friends, as strange or off-the-wall my tales might seem at times, I never exaggerate.

Till next time, stay well, y’all. That’s a bit of Southern for you – Southern Italian, that is.

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

What's Next?

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Mon, 15 May 2006 20:17:00 +0000

I'm starting a new chemo regiment this Tuesday. I'm a little nervous about the side effects. I've had the current chemo for three months and this next one will go for another three months. After that I get a mastectomy and another nine months of maintenance/light chemo.
I've been laughing a lot lately because, as a horror writer, this strikes me as particularly amusing. I'm referring to the side effects of all the various medication I'm on. I will describe them, but don't feel bad, because it's not as horrible as it sounds.

So far, the side effects have included, but are not limited to: occasional mouth sores, fever blisters, alopecia (hence the baldness). Half of my left eyebrow has decided to split town. (I fill in the missing brow with brow pencil, praying I don’t end up looking like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard) My lower eyelashes -- left side only, as well -- have left with the eyebrow. The rest of the eyelashes are taking a wait-and-see attitude, wondering if the better life promised them is really worth leaving their loved ones behind. I have scars on both breast (2 lumpectomies) a two-inch scar, and lump, below the collarbone, where they inserted a port (catheter) so they can plug the chemo right in. I have ‘chemo brain’, an odd phenomena that affects my memory - mostly my short-term memory, so I spend a lot of time saying, "Huh?" Also, lets not forget those favorite standards: nausea, bone pain and general soreness and tiredness. Oh, and since the chemo has started to fry my ovaries, I have multiple (now, watch it, you dirty-minded people out there) hot flashes. This lovely phenomena leaves me covered in sweat, looking as if I’ve just had a run-in with Columbo after stashing the maid’s body under the stairs.

For the second half of the program I can expect any of the following: neuropathy of both arms (numbness of the hands and fingers), tingling in both arms, extreme fatigue, “moonface” (from the steroids), an oddity where my face swells up to resemble the moon – not too difficult, considering my bald, hairless head – continued nausea, bone pain and my nails will turn black.

When I think of the above, this scene pops into my mind:
A tired, bald woman, with an oddly circular face, sans eyebrows or lashes, drags herself across the street, stooping – because her bones hurt – She repeatedly drops the map she’s carrying, (neuropathy, remember?) She has a problem speaking (mouth sores) and when she does manage to croak out some words, she forgets what she is saying and who she is saying it to (chemo brain). She reaches up to scratch her nose, but doesn't realize that she's already doing that, 'cause she can't feel it, so she pokes her eye instead. That action brings her hands in focus to a local passerby, who recoils in horror due to her black nails.

So she never gets to ask the question that she's wanted to all day: "Does anyone know the way to the Bell Tower?"

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

Coming Up Next: The Meg Ryan Incident

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Fri, 05 May 2006 17:07:00 +0000

The Big Bald

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Thu, 13 Apr 2006 13:48:00 +0000

“Let’s just do it.” I said.
“You sure?” Barbara asked, electric trimmer in hand.
“Yeah. No point delaying the inevitable.”

I sat on a chair in the middle of the kitchen wearing a large trash bag for protection. What can I say? It was a look. This was the best room for sweeping up hair, since the floor had ceramic tiles. Even though I had no qualms regarding what we were about to do, I was oddly anxious. These were uncharted waters: now my cancer would be externally visible. I steeled myself. “Go for it.” I held a mirror in my hand. I wanted to see the transformation.

My astrological sign is Leo. Leos are proud of their hair. Our manes declare our confidence and standing – in our own minds. But now I was about to become maneless. How would I feel? I was annoyed at myself for being preoccupied with something so superficial; so trivial. My anxiety mounted.

Barbara started from the back of my head to the front. I watched mutely as locks of my hair fell and sections of my scalp became visible. The whirring of the razor now seemed ominous. I had a wild impulse to bolt from the chair and shout, “Leave it be!” The process felt ritualistic; it echoed of all the women that had done this before me. A rite of passage. The moment was surprisingly somber: a realization that now the exterior would reflect the interior.

It was like every army recruiting film you’ve ever seen. At one point I looked very punk – severe sides leading to a wild patch of hair sprouting from the center of my head. Amazing how much hair affects your looks. As more of the hair fell, I begun to look like a convict. Happily, I could now see that my head was rounded, not lumpy and square as I had feared. A small comfort.

When Barbara finished she said, “Well?” I could see she was proud of the job she had done. Poor girl, I was pretty confident this was the first time she had shaved someone’s head. I smiled but didn’t say anything. I felt naked, exposed. Unexpectedly overwhelmed by how something so little affected me.

The buzz cut felt like a tightly mowed lawn. But even though it was nice to have this Velcro-like hair on my head, I knew I’d have to remove all of it. My scalp had become so sensitive that any hair pressing back into it made me wince in pain and discomfort. I ran upstairs to shower. While there, I lathered up my head and stepped out, taking my razor with me. The vanity mirrors were fogged so I wiped a circle in the center and proceeded to do what I dreaded. The head bleeds a lot, so I was nervous. Any cuts could infect easily thanks to the chemo, plus I was on a very low dose of Coumadin, a blood thinner. No matter, I put my fears aside and plowed on. In a short while, I had a smooth, baby bottomed, head. I was done and I hadn’t even nicked myself.

You don’t really realize how much protection hair affords you. Immediately after my triumphant shave, I became cold. Once dressed, I had to dig out something to cover my head with. All breezes felt as if a silk scarf was moving about my head. You might think this pleasant, but trust me, it is not. My newly naked scalp was too sensitive and exposed for any type of contact, even an invisible one.

The biggest preoccupation, those first few weeks, was how to keep my head warm. I’m not big on what I call the “cancer” hats. I have nothing against others wearing them, but for me, it’s a no-go. I originally thought I’d just wear baseball caps, but they didn’t cover the back of my neck. That area needed to be covered in order for me to stay warm. My head was always cold, especially at night. I tried wearing a schmatta (Schmatta (n.) Rags: Don't go out of the house wearing that schmatta. See: Yiddish glossary ) But the knot in the back made it impossible to sleep. I tried putting the knot in the front of my head, ala Tupac, but then the top of my head was exposed. Winter caps were too binding and bulky. Then I remembered that you could put panty hose over your head. Mistakenly, I tried this with a knee-hi sock and rapidly realized that I would have to deflate my head.

I moved on to panty hose. Support hose is not recommended for the same reason as listed above. Finally I settled on a pair of tan hose with enough runs in them to start a marathon. I cut the legs off and tied a knot were the crotch used to be. Now I could go to bed confident that I could keep warm at night, as well as rob a bodega.

Right away I started accosting bald men. Everywhere I went, I’d sidle up to the poor, unsuspecting marks and pepper them with questions such as, “How do you keep your head warm?” “How do you get it so shiny?” Or, “How do you keep your scalp from drying out?” To which they would usually reply, “You get used to it.” To the shine question, only one admitted to using a product to make it so. Don’t ask me what it is, I don’t remember. As for the dry scalp, one gent said he used cocoa butter. This, of course, sent me immediately to the nearest store to pick some up. Now people can’t figure out why they begin thinking about the beach whenever I walk into a room. It didn’t matter what the event was, no bald-headed man was safe from me. After a while, they began to sense me moving their way. They would scramble like a herd of antelopes at the approach of a lion.

Friends came to my aid. Every other day, various head coverings would make their way into my growing collection. I’m now the proud owner of several nylon swim caps, wig caps, du rags – in many colors – and one odd, striped cap. It’s very reminiscent of the beanie hats, with the propeller at the top. If it was more comfortable, I’d wear it all the time. Eventually I found a soft, cotton cap from a street vendor. He placed it on my head himself, lovingly. Eyes filled with the wonder of someone who had never touched a bald woman’s head. I was grateful. I thank all those wonderful friends, as well, who made it their mission to help me in my quest. I am forever in debt to their single-mindedness and generosity.

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

The Truth About Hair Loss

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Sat, 08 Apr 2006 21:59:00 +0000

You know, it’s funny. Since I’ve become “Hair-free” (my term) I’ve had time to reflect on the process of losing my hair. No one tells you how you will lose your hair on Chemo, but everyone warns you that you will.
Everyone.

Former cancer patients mutter in ominous tones, “You will lose your hair. I just want to warn you...” Doctors and nurses say, “There is a chance that you will lose your hair...” Some who did, really feel the loss, with a pang that is palpable. Their eyes signal a sadness that goes beyond the physical. This is strange to me, since I know, yes – know – that it will grow back. This sense of loss, seems to be rooted in something deeper. For women, it might represent a loss of their femininity, or maybe a confirmation of the fact they are indeed, ill – something I was well aware of.

For me, fear wasn’t an issue. I was kinda looking forward to losing my hair, since I’d always wondered what I’d look like bald. My only trepidation was that I might have a Ms. Potato-Head kinda head, lumpy and misshapen. After all, I was going into this knowing that it would grow back. Guys that lose hair don’t have that option. It would be an adventure. High-wire flying...with a net.

What no one was telling is exactly how you lose your hair. Is it gradual? Quick? Do you wake up one day and voilá ... you’re bald? Does it happen while you’re in the supermarket, as you lean down to get the cheap cereal in the lower shelf. Does it fall off your head like a bad toupee? No one was saying. I can now reveal how and when.

The when was Thursday morning, March 9th, 2006 at 8:14 am precisely. How do I know? Because a minute before, I was laying in bed wondering if and when I’d lose my hair. I had tugged on a lock and it was still firmly attached. Then the oddest thing happened, my scalp started to tingle, nay, vibrate, as if a mild electrical undercurrent were being passed through it. The roots of my hair actually began to feel lose. My skin suddenly felt uber-sensitive. The entire scalp wanted to take off, to fly away from the rest of my head. It was a strange and disconcerting sensation. I reached up once again, and pulled on another lock of hair. This time the entire lock came off in my hand. Wow. Just like that the process had begun, exactly 2 weeks and 2 days from my first chemo treatment.

I decided to let nature take its course and see how quickly it would all go. My friend Ev asked, when I told her, “Did you shave it yet?”
“Nope. I want to see what happens.”
“I shaved it. I was sick of leaving hair everywhere.” Ah, but she had long hair. I have short hair. I reasoned that I wouldn’t feel pressured to take any drastic measures any time soon. I’d outlast her, I was sure.

I find the term “lost” inaccurate. I didn’t “lose” my hair. I knew exactly where it was. It was in the livingroom, the bedroom, the bathroom, the back of every chair and sofa I sat on. It was on my pillow, so voluminously laid, that you’d have thought I was sleeping on my dog. It was a trail that I left everywhere I went. Then there was the sensitivity. It hurt to have hair on my head. Don’t ask me why. But I couldn’t lay my head down without cringing. I lasted a measly three days, and even then, there was plenty of hair left on my head, but I could not take it anymore.

Next: The big bald...

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

About Town...

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Wed, 29 Mar 2006 14:55:00 +0000

On only my second outing outside my four block radius, I was privileged to see a reading of Judy Chicurel's one-act play, Damon and Debra. Expertly directed by Nicole Franklin, the play centers around two characters trapped on a Brooklyn-bound Q train shortly after the events of September 11th: a 40-something Italian-American woman and a much younger African-American man. The play deals with race misconceptions, deep-seated assumptions and who we really are inside the shell others see. Oddly enough, I had forgotten it also touches on breast cancer. And in case you might interpret this as a "heavy" play, you should know it also contains plenty of humor.

I had seen a small scene from it eight months earlier, along with other selected pieces. Even then, the play, and incredibly strong writing, stood out. The current incarnation is no less powerful and entertaining, plus I now had the benefit of seeing it in its entirety. Damon was played by Jas Anderson, the same actor who had played Damon the first time I saw it. Lorraine Bracco, played Debra (talk about perfect casting!). Ms. Bracco did an admirable job, considering she did not have the advantage being familiar with the material as Mr. Anderson had. Mr. Anderson knew the play inside and out, that gave him the freedom to act out some of the scenes and move about the stage. Ms. Bracco made up for that shortcoming by injecting the role with plenty of humor. Both actors did a superb job with the material.

I wish Ms. Chicurel and Ms. Franklin much success with this piece. It deserves to be seen by a wider audience. Investors would be smart to back this horse with whatever financial support they can muster. I'd love to see this staged fully. Others should have an opportunity to see it, as well.

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

Hair Today...Gone Tomorrow

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Tue, 21 Mar 2006 20:54:00 +0000

FIRST CHEMO

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Tue, 14 Mar 2006 19:26:00 +0000

February 21, 2006

Hard to believe that I was being pumped with poison. The room where the chemo is administered is sunny and cheerful. On my arrival, a nurse named John, settled me on a very comfortable recliner. Gave me a blanket, neck pillow and propped up the side tables on the chair. All this kindness informed me this was going to take more than ten minutes. All the while, John is prepping me on what he’s going to do and what I might expect.

Funny thing is, I’ve never been afraid of cancer. I think of it like any disease or anomaly in the body. Something that you’ve got to deal with and treat. Not a death sentence. Chemotherapy, on the other hand, has always scared the bejeezus out of me. Something along the lines the cure is worse than the disease. The archaic idea that in order to kill the cancer cells, you have to destroy the entire immune system – the good with the bad – is to unbelievable to me. It brings up every bad cliche: what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger; throwing the baby out with the bath water; insert your own here. I waited for the leeches and medicine man to make their appearance next.

When I was a teenager, I came to own a set of books from the 1800. Specifically, a set of medical encyclopedias. I read these with the fascination of a time traveler, having the insight of future discoveries. One particular section had me enthralled: A section titled: CURING BACK PAIN. The section offered the following advice (I’m paraphrasing here):
If your back hurts, take a rope, make a noose. Hang it around your neck, next to your ears, then step off a chair. This will stretch your spine and relieve the tension.
Uh... did they mention that it will relieve you of your life, as well? Nope. I wondered how many apparent suicides, were just simple back pain. I guess we'll never know.

John gently explained that I’d be getting two different chemicals today: Adriamycin RDF & Cytoxan (hated the ‘tox’ portion of the name) AC for short. He said that these are quite caustic and might cause a reaction. I had been warned of this. Also, I was to let them know immediately if I felt a burning sensation because this would mean that the juice was being sent somewhere else instead of the vein, and that my port might be defective. I asked John about this. I had visions of the AC spreading along my lung like battery acid.
“Oh don’t worry about that. I’ll know way before that if it’s not working.” He hung a bag of saline drip as he spoke.
“How?” I asked.
“The drip won’t be going.”
“Oh.” I was relieved.
He also made sure to tell me, repeatedly, that after the procedure I would have to drink water, consistently, at least ten glasses a day. That, and to make sure to eat small meals, but to eat no matter how I felt. Nausea be damned, I absolutely had to make sure to drink otherwise I would dehydrate and have to be hospitalized.

I asked if the needle in the port would hurt. I had gone on a BB for people w/ports – there is a BB for every type of group imaginable on the Internet – and some had said they had some discomfort on needle insertion. John said no. He was right. When the needle was inserted I realized I felt nothing, I was still numb from the surgery. What a relief!

John turned out to be a movie buff, like me, so we spent the hour and half together, trading movie quotes. I was so pleased to see that he knew many of my favorite, obscure lines. It made the time fly by.

Throughout the process, John changed the various IV bags. Antibiotic, saline, steroids, saline, etc. You get the idea. The last in was the Adriamycin RDF, a cough syrupy red liquid that John gave me along with additional saline. He wanted to be very careful w/it, since the stuff was very strong.

To be continued...

©2006 Annelise Pichardo

Notice

noreply@blogger.com (Alp Beck) — Tue, 14 Mar 2006 19:21:00 +0000

NOTE: I’ve decided to post currents events first in an effort to keep everyone more up to date. I will also enter past events in the interim, to keep a proper timeline going. Please be patient, since I am a very slow typist and apparently have fallen behind, rather quickly. I appreciate your patience during this process.

Thank you.

Alp