The Blog
I am in the midst of the second month of my “Breast Cancer experience.” I was diagnosed on October 4, 2008. Because I have such a wonderful, concerned support system—family, friends, and students—the idea of a blog was suggested to me by my Assistant Principal Melanie Sprouse. Actually, she was so enthusiastic about another teacher’s “Baby Blog,” she thought I needed something similar to share my experiences with those who care about me. Not only did she suggest the idea, but she actually created the blog spot for me! She and several of my colleagues aptly named my blog “The Tata Tales.” I am delighted with the idea and the name, and as I count down the days to chemo, I will recreate or blog—I suppose “blog” has become a verb--the history of the past months.
The Lump
I instinctively knew that the lump I felt was not friendly. I had been performing breast self-exams for years, usually in the shower with lots of soap, but one evening as I lounged on the bed, I routinely ran my fingers in a circular motion around and around my breast until I reached the nipple area. Because I was reclined, my nipple was repositioned a bit higher than in the shower, and I felt something unusual. Beneath my skin was an oblong mass that felt like a peanut M&M. Usually I brush off such things as insignificant, something to be looked at during my next annual exam. I am a busy woman, after all. This time, however, I felt a sense of urgency to schedule a mammogram.
The Mammogram and the Biopsy
I called the next day and arranged for a mammogram; it was scheduled for the following Friday, October 3. I anxiously awaited the appointment. As it was Breast Cancer awareness month, I read the newspaper each day with a piqued interest in the feature stories related to breast cancer survivors clad in beautiful pink scarves. Would I soon be among the ranks of “the diagnosed”?
The day of the test arrived. A very reassuring and gentle mammogram technician at Doctor’s Hospital performed the procedure. The doctor viewed the “pictures” and indicated that I needed an ultrasound as something looked suspicious. The ultrasound confirmed his concerns; something looked irregular. He indicated that I needed to see a surgeon. Without hesitation, I asked for Dr. Randy Cooper. The physician called, and Dr. Cooper said that he would see me that day; the doctor indicated that he would probably make an appointment for me to have a biopsy. My husband and I went to Dr. Cooper’s office. We were the last patients to arrive, and he greeted us personally in the waiting room, ushered us to an examination room, looked at the lump, and told me that we needed to perform a biopsy . . . right then . . . right there.
Okay . . . I don’t do needles. I thought I would make an appointment to come back for this part. Several weeks before, my dear friend, colleague, and talented art teacher Cathy Rausch was telling me about an assignment her painting students were starting that day. It entailed confronting their greatest fears through art. She asked me to name my greatest fear. I replied, without hesitation, “having my skin punctured.” Well. Here I was face to face with my nemesis and no Valium to prepare me for the task at hand. My husband Gary (who had only heard tales of my fainting experiences but had never experienced them firsthand) assured me that I could do this. (He is much braver than I.) Reluctantly, I acquiesced.
Falling back on my natural child birth training from many moons ago, I found a focal point on the stark white ceiling and began to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth over and over as the needle was inserted into my nipple. Not a pleasant sensation. I would rather give birth naturally than have a shot (not kidding). Gary held my hand and watched (I assume in horror) as I began to warn my illustrious surgeon and his attentive intern (rather loudly and hysterically) that I was going to pass out . . . pass out . . . pass ou . . . I traveled to another space and time while Dr. Cooper continued to work and Gary gazed into my wide-open glazed eyes. When I “returned to the room,” I recognized the stark white ceiling and realized that I was still in the doctor’s office. Now, however, my feet were perched on Dr. Cooper’s shoulders as he finished the procedure. (How embarrassing—good that I wore pants.) I looked at Gary and asked frantically, “The needle’s little, right?” His eyes widened as he nodded and said (rather unconvincingly), “Mmm hmm.” He was to tell me after I downed a Coca-Cola (my post-fainting drink of choice—not diet but regular—the only time I allow myself this luxury) that the doctor had cut me open with something that looked like a box cutter and used a scoop that looked like a kitchen utensil to perform the biopsy. I took another sip of Coke.
Dr. Cooper has the patience of a saint and waited with me until I was able to become vertical once again to be wheeled to the car and driven home. He told me that he would call me the next day with the results of the biopsy.
The Call
I woke up Saturday morning, October 4 just like I had done every Saturday morning. Gary brought me coffee in bed, as usual. I lounged there with my faithful miniature dachshund, Toby, by my side, as usual. I was thankful that I didn’t have to worry about the tardy bell ringing--just like every Saturday morning. (I’m not a morning person.) This Saturday was different, however. I pulled myself out of bed, hooked my cell phone on the pocket of my robe and made my way downstairs to enjoy some family time . . . and wait. Betsy, my oldest daughter, had left already to spend the day working at Target. Katie and Gary sat around the dining room table eating a leisurely breakfast and helping me with the morning crossword puzzle. We all worked a bit too hard at nonchalance, while at the same time counting on my “strong like bull” constitution. I am never sick. The doctor was sure to say that everything is fine but better safe than sorry.
Eventually, my phone played an ironic sweet little melody. I answered to hear Dr. Cooper’s voice wishing me a good morning and then delivering the news that I had dreaded since finding the mysterious mass a few weeks earlier. He told me that I had Breast Cancer. Breast Cancer. Wow. He graciously gave me his home number and told me to call him if I needed to talk over the weekend and that he would see me in his office on Monday morning.
As I nodded into the phone, trying unsuccessfully to retain my composure, Katie left the table tearful, and Gary sat there absorbing the ramifications of the one-sided conversation he was privy to. The day, however, turned out to be delightful. We spent time together and laughed more than we had in a long time. Katie wrapped her arms around me and told me everything was going to be okay. If Katie says it, it is so. She and I went to the mall and shoe shopped (the very best medicine).
I called friends and shared my news. I called my Mom’s neighbor (a nurse and dear friend), Karen O’Kelley, and asked her to go over to tell my Mom. I didn’t want to tell her over the phone. We lost my beloved father to colon cancer not too long ago, and the “C” word is a tender topic in our family. After I had talked with many people, I was a bit numb but okay. I called my friend, colleague, and “partner-in-crime” (or something like that) Bekki Matthews (who is always finding adorable shorter hairstyles for me) and told her that I would need a short style. She promptly told me that she wasn’t picking another one because every time she did, I returned from my hair appointment with the same long, layered “Reese Witherspoon” haircut that I always got. I told her that she needed to pick one this time because I had Breast Cancer and would probably need to cut my hair. I don’t think she saw the humor in my delivery, but she got over it and, ultimately, picked out a truly adorable cut.
Betsy came home and we had to tell her. I didn’t want to tell her over the phone, so I had to wait until she returned home from work that evening. Fortunately, the rest of us had the entire day to “get used to the idea.” Bets didn’t think the lump was anything to worry about, assuming that I am and always will be invincible mom. (I prefer “Goddess.”) I hate to shatter her expectations and tell her when something unexpected occurs. She hates change as much as Gary does. We broke the news, and after the initial horror, she dealt with it like the little red-headed trooper she always is. My support system was in place. I was ready to face this thing head on (hair off, perhaps, but head on).
Dr. Cooper had ended the call by telling me to come to University Hospital on Monday morning to meet with Pam Anderson in the Breast Cancer Outreach Center and then to come to his office to discuss the plan.
The Breast Cancer Outreach Center
Gary and I arrived at University Hospital on Monday morning, October 6 and made our way to the Breast Cancer Outreach Center. It was easy to find. The French doors donned a big pink ribbon in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Pam Anderson, a breast cancer survivor, spent hours with us, explaining in detail what the future held. Gary and I felt so much better after having talked with her. She is definitely the person for that job! She took us across the hall to the “beauty area.” There were wigs and scarves everywhere! The coordinator, Martha, of the shop ushered me in and made me feel as if she were my personal beauty consultant.
Heads spinning, we went up to Dr. Cooper’s office. He reiterated what Pam Anderson had explained, and after some discussion, we decided on a lumpectomy. He told me that he would take the entire nipple complex. That thought unnerved me a bit, but I agreed, and the surgery was scheduled for Wednesday.
I spent the entire day at the hospital, and not one person threatened me with a needle or any other type of cutting device . . . that day.
The Lumpectomy
These people don’t waste any time. My lumpectomy was to be performed in two days. I had to have an MRI and blood work (oh, dear) on Tuesday, October 7. My dear friend and neighbor Lynne Parijs went with Katie and me to the hospital, with camera in hand. Lynne informed me that we absolutely had to scrapbook this new path in life’s journey. She became the official scrapbook coordinator. I had to have an IV, but I survived. The “blood work” wasn’t pretty; Lynne enjoyed the “show” that I put on; Katie cried. I survived.
Wednesday, October 8 was the big day. Prior to the surgery, I had to have a Sentinel Node Injection. Because Dr. Cooper would be removing my sentinel lymph nodes (under my arm) to be certain that they had not been invaded by cancer cells, they had to inject radioactive dye into my nipple (4 needles . . . into my nipple . . . need I say more?). Being the needleophobe that I am, I had asked many questions about this procedure. The accounts ranged from “the most terrible pain ever” to “not too bad.” Great. Pam Anderson (knowing of my fear) told me that she would meet me there. I took Valium bright and early Wednesday morning and set out for the hospital with Lynne and Betsy. (Gary and Katie would meet us later after they took care of life in the real world.)
I entered the procedure room, climbed on the table, and found my focal point on the ceiling. The technician was kind and understanding and assured me that the screaming man in the next room was not having the same procedure I was having. Sure.
I began my deep breathing and summoned my courage. She talked me through the whole process, and it was over before I knew it. It was not nearly as painful as I had envisioned. I was finished before Pam arrived, as promised, with smelling salts in her pocket. She was my new friend.
My entourage gathered in the hospital room to bide the time with me for the next four hours as we waited for the dye to move to the appropriate location in preparation for surgery. The nurse came in and inserted, yes, another needle. She was gentle (probably because before each procedure, I regale the sticker person with tales of woe about my fear of needles and plead for mercy). Finally, the anesthesiologist arrived. The last thing I remember is that she was putting some “feel good juice” in my IV. Then I woke up.
It was over. Dr. Cooper bent down and whispered that he didn’t have to take my nipple after all. I was elated! Of course, I was still sedated. Elated and sedated—perhaps that is why as I was rolled back into the room to greet my family, I proudly held up two fingers and proclaimed that I had “two nipples!”
The cool thing is that I had read numerous articles in the Augusta Chronicle (the local paper, which did an amazing job of covering Breast Cancer Awareness month) about reconstruction. Doctors can do phenomenal things to reconstruct entire breasts and even to tattoo new nipples. My friend Lisa Weaver thought it would be a good idea for the entire English Department to get tattoos in my honor if I had to get one (although I assume they would have picked a less “sensitive” area).
The Results and Treatment Plan
My tumor was 1.7 cm. The lymph nodes were clear (no cancer cells—very good—cancer hadn’t spread ). Because it was under 2 cm. and the nodes were clear, it was considered Stage 1—very good.
The tumor was estrogen positive. This means that it feeds on Estrogen—very good. If we know what it feeds on, we can starve it with an Estrogen blocker—Tomoxifin (pill I’ll take for five years).
A new test called the Oncotype performed by a lab in California ranks cancers as to the chance of recurrence. My “number” was 27, which means that I will need to undergo Chemotherapy.
My treatment plan will consist of four chemotherapy treatments, radiation for six weeks, and the estrogen blocker for five years.
The Hair
I am accustomed to having very long hair. My husband is even more accustomed to my having very long hair (hence my reluctance to ever follow through with Bekki’s myriad plans for my altered hairstyles.) However, due to the fact that I will most likely lose my hair as a result of chemotherapy, I decided to get it cut short now in an effort to make it easier to deal with the loss of my tresses. Therefore, the quest for the perfect haircut became of supreme importance.
Certain faculty members and students at LHS have been on a mission: selecting the perfect hairstyle for Ms. Chase. After much painful deliberation and mind changing (on my part), we decided to abandon my “Reese Witherspoon” look (although I still love Reese—and her look) and to adopt the “Katie Holmes” bob in the front and the “Victoria Beckam Pob” in the back—“Pob” because it is Posh’s bob. (I have become quite educated about hairstyles, wigs, and scarves. Praise the Internet.)
My hairdresser is the extremely talented Mary Mixon of Modish. Her sister-in-law is Michelle Mixon of our English Department, a dear friend who has suffered through my hair woes over the years and finally simply sent me to Mary.
On November 4, my supportive “hair initiative entourage” gathered at Modish Salon on Broad Street to support me as I joined the ranks of the “short hair girls.” As I was driving to the salon, I heard my phone buzz, looked at the screen, and realized that I had received 11 text messages from students with well wishes for the hair cutting endeavor. My daughters, Betsy and Katie, called several times with queries pertaining to my whereabouts. (I think they thought I was going to flee.) I did not flee, however. When I arrived, I was greeted by fellow English teacher and friend Melissa Minton and precious daughter Landry. She wanted to be certain that I wasn’t going to “freak out” on Mary (who had just cut Melissa’s hair—we keep it all in the family). I assured her that I was excited, and I would not “freak out.”
Mary braided my hair into two neat little braids and snipped them off. She packed them in a stylish little black Modish bag all set to be mailed off to Locks of Love. Everyone appeared to be holding their breath, but I didn’t “freak out.” Actually, it was quite liberating to lose the length and to don a short, sassy look. Mary worked her magic and created a style that I thought was quite “posh” (no pun intended). I have to admit that I was a bit nervous about school the next day as the style was very different for me, and I hoped that it would be well received. My highly supportive faculty and student body gave me rave reviews, suggesting that I was just too hot for words. Melissa Minton even brought me a bright red necklace with a jalapeno pepper pendant because she felt it was appropriate for my new look.
Doctor’s Appointments I Hadn’t Considered
As I had been under the scrutiny of so many doctors throughout the past weeks, an observation was made about a mole on my stomach that looked suspicious. You’ve got to be kidding! I made an appointment with a dermatologist—Dr. Duckworth—who removed not only the stomach mole but two others that looked suspicious. She was wonderfully understanding about my needleophobia and treated me with lots of TLC (and Valium). The pathology reports came back negative, but now I have three additional holes in my body that need to heal. Better safe than sorry.
The oncologist told me that I needed to visit the dentist because chemo attacks rapidly producing cells within the body (including the lining of the mouth), and apparently the mouth is a quite a nasty nesting ground for germs that could cause infection. Since chemo also attacks white blood cells (also rapidly producing cells), I will be at more of a risk of infection during chemotherapy. Therefore, I made an appointment to have my teeth cleaned. I visited my dentist and long-time friend Ron Bryant who informed me that I had a filling (silver—clue to its age) that was not in good shape and needed to be repaired (right side). Furthermore, I had a cracked molar on the left side that needed to be repaired prior to my chemotherapy. Fortunately, Ron has had a very long history with my fear of needles and dentists (how bizarre that I had actually considered dental school in a previous life). As the clock was ticking and chemo was rapidly approaching, I told him that we needed to do everything on the same day. The date was arranged. Heavily medicated with my trusty friend, Valium, I was driven to Ron’s office by Katie. Ron was prepared with a tank full of gas and TLC to get me through the arduous experience. I survived, albeit slack jawed and unable to eat for the rest of the evening.
I had to visit my gynecologist to have my ovaries checked. I’ve made two visits to Dr. O’Shields’ office for ovarian ultrasounds. Interesting experience. My ovaries are fine—enough said. Dr. O’Shields is so encouraging that I appreciated the opportunity just to talk with her prior to my chemotherapy. She quite naturally instills a sense of tranquility that everything will be fine.
Wig Selection
I visited with Martha at Renewal at Second to Nature Women’s Boutique located in the Breast Cancer Outreach Center at University Hospital. She helped me to select just the right wig. It is shorter than my original choice. Since cutting my hair, I have grown accustomed to the new me and decided to go with a wig similar to my new style. She showed me hats and scarves and bangs—yes bangs. It is amazing what you can buy! Martha is the perfect person for this position. She has truly helped me to accept my anticipated baldness with enthusiasm—well, at least not dread.
My amazing students held a bake sale in order to raise money to purchase a second “fun wig” for me. I am supposed to select several for them to vote on. I think they are secretly planning to purchase a pink Mohawk wig or something along that line. We’ll see. What an amazingly thoughtful group of young people. They energize me every day and reaffirm my belief in goodness in the world. Teenagers truly rock!!
CHEMO
Okay, so the first chemo was scheduled for Thursday, November 20. The plan is that I will have treatments on Thursdays in three-week intervals. I will recuperate Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, and return to work on Monday. Fortunately, this time, we only have to work Monday and Tuesday, and then we are out for Thanksgiving. My partner in planning and many other shenanigans, Mary Alice Hill, and I met numerous times at various coffee houses around Augusta to get the plans down so that instructional strategies would be maximized, I could recover, and my students’ educations would not be compromised—Super Teachers that we are.
The lesson plans were prepared; the substitute teachers were lined up; the students bade me well, brought me massive supplies of chocolate, and promised to wear pink on chemo day; faculty members secretively conspired to cook amazing meals for me and my family; my mama called, assuring me that she would be with me in spirit through every drop; my daughters and husband were armed a ready to do battle; I had progressed from Valium to Ativan. Time to rock and roll.
I took Ativan to sleep the night before. I got up early and took more Ativan to reinforce my super-hero ability to face the needles once again. I couldn’t remember if I was supposed to eat or not. Oh well. With the detailed notes I took regarding everything related to chemotherapy, you’d think I would have noted if I could eat before the procedure. Thanks to Gary’s quick thinking (and belief that no meal should ever be skipped), I was armed with a rubber made container of oatmeal—the breakfast of champions (according to me not Gary)—and we headed off to the oncologist’s office ready to face the unknown. When we arrived, Gary immediately checked to see if I could eat. He was relieved to know that I was allowed to eat my oatmeal. Missing a meal is an unthinkable act to my husband.
I was called back very quickly to the blood drawing room—my favorite place. I actually sat in the chair and had my blood drawn instead of lying down. I kind of reclined a bit and made it through without incident. After meeting briefly with Dr. Keaton, Gary, Betsy, and I (Katie had a chemistry lab that morning) were escorted into the chemo treatment room, a pleasantly decorated room that I had been shown on an earlier visit. (The visit when they made me get a flu shot—I won’t forget that one.) Today, the room was different, however. Just as on my first visit, the walls were lined with floral green reclining chairs for the comfort of patients receiving chemotherapy. Today, however, was indeed chemo day. The chairs weren’t empty. They had living, breathing human beings sitting in them—human beings who were connected with tubes (via needles) to bags of toxins designed to kill cells within their bodies. I felt my eyes fill with tears—something I had promised myself I would not do—but, today I was one of them. I was a cancer patient. I was here to begin my chemotherapy. It felt like some kind of sick dream. I had talked about this day very openly with my family, friends, and students and thought I was ready to waltz right in a do this thing. This thing felt very daunting as I walked through the patients who were already hooked up to select my chair among the masses.
The patients were nice, smiling, friendly people—just like me. I moved through the room and chose a recliner in the corner of the room with a nice view of the patio, sat down, plopped down my immense bag of books to read and papers to grade (what was I thinking?), looked away from Betsy, and wiped my eyes. This was reality. I told myself to stop crying. I am a strong, powerful woman, and I can do this. In three hours, I would be headed home where my family would be at my beck and call and I would drink coffee from my new mug aptly labeled, “Goddess.”
Soon the nurse was at my side. She inserted (you guessed it) a needle in the vein in the top of my hand and told me that she would begin with anti-nausea medication (Praise be to this medication!). Shortly thereafter, she reappeared and indicated that the treatment was about to begin. The first medicine to be administered was Taxotere. She indicated that she would sit with me during the administration of this particular medication because people sometimes had allergic reactions to it. I had been filled in on the possibilities of reactions to this drug at an earlier visit (the flu shot visit—I’m not over that yet). I assured the nurse that I have never been allergic to anything in my life, so I probably wouldn’t have any trouble. She smiled and sat on a stool next to me. Good plan.
She told me that she had begun the drip, and Taxotere was entering my system. About thirty seconds later, I felt demons skittering up my spine. When they reached mid-back, they spread out in both directions across my shoulder blades. I began to feel flushed and sat up. I said, “My back hurts.” No sooner than I got the words out of my mouth, a massive invisible demon who must have been as muscular as my husband smacked me across the shoulder blades with a two-by-four, knocking the wind out of me. I couldn’t breathe. I managed to whisper, “I can’t breathe; I can’t breathe.” Then, I simply couldn’t breathe. I simply gasped and gasped and gasped. I felt as if I were on fire. My face felt as if it were shaking uncontrollably—kind of like when your foot falls asleep times a thousand. I threw the blankets off of my legs and flung the anthology of contemporary poetry that I had been reading (I know, serious nerd status) across Gary’s chair. Back arched, I sat there on fire trusting that someone would “fix me” quickly. After all, these people know what they are doing; the nurse was sitting right next to me for a reason. Sure enough, before I knew what was happening a portable oxygen tank on wheels appeared before my eyes, and a plastic tube was stuck to my nose. Oxygen! What a beautiful experience. I could breathe again. The nurse told me that she had stopped the treatment. I felt the fire demons gradually leaving my body.
The looks on Gary’s and Betsy’s faces broke my heart; I had so wanted to do this thing without drama. Gary was later to explain to me that my face and chest were the color of a tomato; then, as if drawn by a cartoonist, the redness drained from my face, leaving me white as a ghost. Gary, not one to stand idly by where his blonde, brunette, and redhead are concerned (that would be his wife and daughters), was set to launch into an all-out search for someone in a white coat labeled MD and a crash cart. Fortunately, I began to breathe when I did. It might not have been pretty.
As a result of my full-blown allergic reaction (that I was certain would never happen to me), my treatment was slowed. My “drip bag” had to be filled with Benadryl and other such meds to help my body deal with the effects of Taxotere; whether my system liked this drug or not, it was going in. The contents of this bag made me extremely sleepy. I could hear myself snoring—very ladylike, but snoring just the same. I was aware of what was going on in the room, including my sleeping status—how bizarre. The drug had to be administered very slowly. When finished, I had to have the second drug, Cytoxin. I handled that drug without incident. Little did I realize that we had been there for seven hours! I had been told that the first treatment would be the longest—approximately three hours. I had taken seven. If you’re going to do something, do it big!
After Chemo
During my slumber as the chemicals dripped, Gary graded papers and graded papers and graded papers. He was so proud of his progress that he shared his success with me as I resumed consciousness. (My stack of papers remained in the black bag tucked behind my recliner.) Hearing our “teacher talk,” a pleasant woman (also hooked to a bag) struck up a conversation with Gary. Ironically, they had previously taught at the same elementary school (at different times). She and her husband were delightful and uplifting and indicated that a great “after chemo” restaurant is The Chop House. Gary and I decided to give it a try. As we walked into the parking lot, Katie pulled up . . . just in time for dinner. Boy, was Betsy peeved when she called me later on. She had sat there for most of the day and had to leave for class, and Katie arrived in time for dinner. Timing is everything! We enjoyed a nice dinner, complete with fireplace and a warm ambiance. Pleasantly, our new friends from chemo who had recommended the restaurant were there also.
That evening as I slept, Karen Field delivered dinner for the next evening. Lakeside teachers rock (and cook). Her husband, Bill, had made his famous broccoli soup, and Lisa Weaver sent a pumpkin dessert that was to die for.
Friday - I was a bit fearful of what was to come in the next few days. I had heard so many tales about the after-effects of chemotherapy and yet reminders from many people that each situation is different; I woke up waiting for something to happen. Nothing happened. I didn’t get sick. Praise be to the meds in the bag! As a matter of fact, I felt reasonably good physically on Friday—emotionally exhausted, but physically good.
The Bone Marrow Shot – Just before we left the oncologist’s office on Thursday, the nurse asked me if I would feel comfortable giving myself a shot. Of course, I laughed right out lout and assumed that she must have had something strange in her “drip bag” that day too. Gary stepped in and explained that I most definitely would never be able to puncture my skin, but he could. She explained that I would have to take several pills the day after chemo to bolster my blood count and that I would also need an injection to fortify my bone marrow that would have been negatively affected by the chemotherapy. She further explained that if he didn’t feel comfortable giving the shot, we could simply come back to the doctor’s office, and they would administer it. “After all,” she casually mentioned, “it costs $4,500.” Horrified, I almost passed out from the anxiety of taking responsibility for a vile of medicine that cost $4,500—and the anxiety of thinking of all the things I could buy for $4,500. I would need one of these shots after each chemo session. Holy Moly! We took the syringe home packed in ice and placed it in the refrigerator. The time came for the injection on Friday. Gary carefully removed the syringe. I demonstrated great drama. He inserted the needle very gently. Then the burning began . . . very slowly . . . the burning continued . . . very slowly. Feeling more relaxed about expressing my emotions in my own home environment, I let Gary know exactly what I thought about shots. He did such a good job; I felt like terrible person for unleashing my “rage for the needle” in his presence. He forgave me, and I know he will step up to the plate next time and administer the next shot.
That evening, Karen Field delivered dinner again. Melissa Minton made an amazing lasagna with all the fixins. Karen lives in my neighborhood, so she is the official delivery person. What a treat!
Saturday – I woke up at 1 a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. I looked at the ceiling, thought about lesson plans, tossed and turned, but couldn’t sleep. Finally, morning came and Gary and Toby (my loving miniature dachshund) woke up to keep me company. Gary’s first question was, “How do you feel?” I wasn’t nauseated. That was good. My neck and head hurt terribly though. Debbie McMurtrey, my Assistant Principal, had told me that I would feel like I had the flu. She was right. I wasn’t exactly tired, just fatigued. I couldn’t sleep. I just felt like a sloth. Fortunately, the week prior to my chemo, Debbie came walking down the hallway carrying a beautiful, soft pink blanket—her chemo blanket given to her by another teacher who had experienced breast cancer. She passed it on to me and told me to remember that when I was wrapped in this blanket, it represented the love of my Lakeside family wrapped around me. My pink blanket (on which my laptop rests right now) has been my faithful companion, reminding me of the love and support of my friends.
Sunday – More of the same. Today the demons returned in my spine and head. It just hurts. No nausea though! Mary Alice Hill just called me to check on me. Friendship is a beautiful thing. Tomorrow it’s back to school. I look forward to seeing everyone. Lisa Weaver just called. Friendship is a beautiful thing. As each day passes, the remains of chemo should become less noticeable. Kelly Johnson just called. Friendship is a beautiful thing. Now I am on the countdown to day ten, the day my hair could begin to fall out. Seven days left. I have ordered hats and hair. The plan is in place. On to the next leg of the journey!
We celebrated Christmas in some very warm weather. The girls spoiled me rotten. I received so many hats and head adornments that my closet looks like a haberdashery.
