Hello remaining readers! As we weather tropical storm Isaias, I am chilling at home after a new treatment yesterday after what was an exhausting and emotional few weeks. This blog post may be meandering as a result. I'm processing a lot and am just going to try and get it out on the page, so please bear with me.
But let me start somewhere. Along with my once-every-three weeks immunotherapy, I had yet another a new treatment yesterday. My oncologist started me on an infusion called Zometa, which is a bone-strengthening agent. It is administered via IV and lasted about 15 minutes. They started giving this drug to patients like me who are in medically-induced menopause to combat brittle bones. In so doing, they found that it had some protective effects against potential bone metastases. So I'll be doing that once every six months "for the next several years." They said it may cause mild flu-like symptoms, and sure enough, I woke up today feeling a little achey. It's totally manageable, and I'm feeling okay with it.
In terms of recovery from surgery, I'm doing much, much better. Everything just improved exponentially as the weeks progressed, and as everyone said, the implants are sooo much more comfortable than the expanders.
So now for the real reason it has been an exhausting an emotional few weeks– I've been dealing with my first real bout of scanxiety. Scanxiety is a term cancer patients prescribe to the anxieties, fear, and uncertainty caused by the various scans we have to receive.
You see, about a month ago, I started sporadically having pretty bad stomach aches. They happened a handful of times at night after a large meal, and haven't happened at all while I've been taking omeprazole, which is an over-the-counter acid reducer. For the average person, docs would probably assume this to be a bad bout of acid reflux/GERD. For someone like me, it is also assumed this is a bad bout of acid reflux, likely caused by all the chemo I've received. Still, there is always the fear/worry that any issue is related to cancer.*
So you may think that's what's causing this bout of scanxiety. Well, no. I'm feeling mostly okay about that now, especially since I've continued the omeprazole and stayed away from too much fatty food and haven't had any tummy aches. That logically makes me think it's just run-of-the-mill stomach issues after 12 sessions of pretty toxic chemo.
The more anxiety-ridden part is adjacent to this. Speaking with some friends and reading some stuff on my cancer blogs, I brought up to my oncology nurse that I was worried it may be my gallbladder causing me issues. While my nurse was more convinced it's acid reflux/GERD, my oncologist thought it was a good idea to do an abdominal scan. So about a week ago, I went in for an ultrasound of my gallbladder and liver. At first, the nurse told me all was clear. I had some sludge in my gallbladder (which, FWIW, could be causing me the issues described above) and my liver was "unremarkable."
But a few days after that, the nurse called me again and told me that turns out the radiologist actually did see something on my liver– a small "probable hemangioma"– or collection of blood vessels. As a result, my oncologist wanted to send me out for a liver MRI. Despite the fact that my nurse told me that the doctor was being extra careful and some oncologists would leave it at that and not send me out for more imaging, this is where the scanxiety kicked in.
I had never had an MRI before. I was so scared. The MRI itself was scary- you're put in a small tube for long periods of time, part of which with an IV attached to your arm. But more than anything, the waiting was terrifying. My thoughts were jumping about a thousand steps ahead, to the darkest possible places. I felt like I was waiting on a death sentence.** The results were not ready by the end of the day on Friday, so I had to wait through the weekend for the results.
Luckily, throughout the week, despite the isolating global pandemic we're in, I had some loved ones who kept me (somewhat) calm and distracted. This cutie***:
But let me start somewhere. Along with my once-every-three weeks immunotherapy, I had yet another a new treatment yesterday. My oncologist started me on an infusion called Zometa, which is a bone-strengthening agent. It is administered via IV and lasted about 15 minutes. They started giving this drug to patients like me who are in medically-induced menopause to combat brittle bones. In so doing, they found that it had some protective effects against potential bone metastases. So I'll be doing that once every six months "for the next several years." They said it may cause mild flu-like symptoms, and sure enough, I woke up today feeling a little achey. It's totally manageable, and I'm feeling okay with it.
In terms of recovery from surgery, I'm doing much, much better. Everything just improved exponentially as the weeks progressed, and as everyone said, the implants are sooo much more comfortable than the expanders.
So now for the real reason it has been an exhausting an emotional few weeks– I've been dealing with my first real bout of scanxiety. Scanxiety is a term cancer patients prescribe to the anxieties, fear, and uncertainty caused by the various scans we have to receive.
You see, about a month ago, I started sporadically having pretty bad stomach aches. They happened a handful of times at night after a large meal, and haven't happened at all while I've been taking omeprazole, which is an over-the-counter acid reducer. For the average person, docs would probably assume this to be a bad bout of acid reflux/GERD. For someone like me, it is also assumed this is a bad bout of acid reflux, likely caused by all the chemo I've received. Still, there is always the fear/worry that any issue is related to cancer.*
So you may think that's what's causing this bout of scanxiety. Well, no. I'm feeling mostly okay about that now, especially since I've continued the omeprazole and stayed away from too much fatty food and haven't had any tummy aches. That logically makes me think it's just run-of-the-mill stomach issues after 12 sessions of pretty toxic chemo.
The more anxiety-ridden part is adjacent to this. Speaking with some friends and reading some stuff on my cancer blogs, I brought up to my oncology nurse that I was worried it may be my gallbladder causing me issues. While my nurse was more convinced it's acid reflux/GERD, my oncologist thought it was a good idea to do an abdominal scan. So about a week ago, I went in for an ultrasound of my gallbladder and liver. At first, the nurse told me all was clear. I had some sludge in my gallbladder (which, FWIW, could be causing me the issues described above) and my liver was "unremarkable."
But a few days after that, the nurse called me again and told me that turns out the radiologist actually did see something on my liver– a small "probable hemangioma"– or collection of blood vessels. As a result, my oncologist wanted to send me out for a liver MRI. Despite the fact that my nurse told me that the doctor was being extra careful and some oncologists would leave it at that and not send me out for more imaging, this is where the scanxiety kicked in.
I had never had an MRI before. I was so scared. The MRI itself was scary- you're put in a small tube for long periods of time, part of which with an IV attached to your arm. But more than anything, the waiting was terrifying. My thoughts were jumping about a thousand steps ahead, to the darkest possible places. I felt like I was waiting on a death sentence.** The results were not ready by the end of the day on Friday, so I had to wait through the weekend for the results.
Luckily, throughout the week, despite the isolating global pandemic we're in, I had some loved ones who kept me (somewhat) calm and distracted. This cutie***:
kept reassuring me that everything was fine, and we went on so many walks to keep ourselves distracted. Here's a shot from one we took around Manhattan Beach after Greg got off from work one day:
And a big shout-out to Nicole, who kept me busy on Friday and Saturday as we awaited the results from the MRI, all while juggling helping her mom recover from shoulder surgery out on Long Island. On Friday, after I tried to keep myself busy by walking up from my apartment to Crown Heights, Nicole, Steve and I headed to go meet Greg in Brighton Beach. We got some outdoor dinner at Toné, our favorite Georgian restaurant, and then walked around the boardwalk. The beginning of the day, which started with my scan, was dark and stormy. But by the end of the day, it gave way to a beautiful evening**** :
The full moon was out, and bright enough that we could take some shots along the water:
On Saturday, Nicole and I went for another walk and chilled in a park near her house. Then Greg and I went over to Austin and Allix's to see the new apartment they just bought. On Sunday, we straightened up the house and I spoke with some friends, and my parents got in Sunday night, so we had dinner together and then Greg and I went to bed.
Well, just like my doctors did to me, I've kept you waiting. The results finally came in yesterday morning. A nurse from my oncologist's office called to let me know that a second radiologist reviewed the results and said that the MRI showed a small "probable hemangioma." I was on a walk before my treatment when I got the call, and I honestly just sat on a bench and sobbed. The fear, stress, relief, and gratitude all culminated in a very public crying session.
I can't stress how relieved I was that the news wasn't bad. My brother brought up that throughout my treatments, I didn't really get any good news. I didn't have a pathological complete response to chemo, my cancer changed in its composition after my surgery, I had to tack on more chemo, etc. The fact that they don't want to send this out for a biopsy is not bad. The fact that my oncologist is extra prudent is not bad. For now, I am just fine. Sure, a scan in three months will be a little scary. But I can go into it trusting that my doctors are just being extra careful. The reality of a cancer diagnosis is that a good oncologist has to be.
Where does that leave me? Well I still need to figure out these stomach issues, so we're going to do an upper endoscopy at the end of the month (which is a camera down my throat. Though again, I've been feeling fine on omeprazole and pretty sure it's run-of-the-mill GERD). Also, my oncologist still wants to be extra super careful and follow-up with another liver MRI in three months to make sure this supposed hemangioma doesn't change in size, but after two scans and two radiologists looked at it, I'm feeling pretty good/reassured that this isn't cancer.
Anyways, now that the darkness has subsided a bit, it's time for a bit of a change. I've said before this journey hasn't been linear. I still believe that to be true. But I also know that it is not sustainable for me to live in a constant state of fear and distrust around my cancer potentially returning. With that being said, 15 months into this "journey," I've decided to make an edit to this blog, and to my language around cancer. Though I still have more treatments, I will now start referring to cancer in the past tense. You'll notice that the blog is now "valhadcancer.blogspot.com."
Though I'm still figuring it out, I may also experiment with the style of posts, playing around with short narrative non-fiction, poems, or whatever else strikes my fancy as I continue to process the trauma of my diagnosis and treatment. It is a truly mind-boggling thing to reckon with that I have been fighting for my life before I even turned 35. But regardless of the state of our world, I have to resume living. And I need to celebrate that I have survived.
*Stomach recurrences are very rare for breast cancer patients. What is much more common are stomach issues caused by lingering effects of treatment, as well as hormonal changes from the maintenance therapies we're on. Generally speaking, the rule of thumb is- is the pain constant? If so, that's probably bad. If not, you're probably dealing with some other random, non-cancer body problem.
**In a way, I was. In many ways, this is the constant background feeling of a cancer patient fearing a recurrence.
***I love this cutie so much. It's actually our second wedding anniversary tomorrow. We are banking on the fact that we got all the hard stuff out of the way early on. We will celebrate with an outdoor dining experience at one of our favorite spots, which some old NYU friends– Brianna and Alan– got us a gift card for that we didn't get to use pre-COVID.
****On a more spiritual note, I find it particularly symbolic that my scanxiety culminated around the Jewish holiday of Tisha B'av, which ended last Thursday evening. Tisha B'av represents the darkest period of the Jewish calendar, as it coincides with a bunch of bad stuff that have happened to the Jewish people over time, including exile, the destruction of our temples, and the holocaust. Last Friday, you're supposed to begin the day in mourning and start Shabbat with more joy. Thanks to Nicole, that was certainly true of my day.
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