Anyone for Fancy Dress?

I got out of a  hot bath the other evening after soaking my achy bones and put on my red dressing gown.  I left my bald head uncovered, took out my contact lenses and put on my gold rimmed glasses.

I was just about to brush my teeth when I glanced in the mirror and got the shock of my life....a Buddhist Monk was staring back at me.

Honestly.  A Total Dead Ringer.

I'm dying for someone to have a fancy dress party 'cos my costume's all sorted.

The Write Way Through Cancer

I've just discovered that I'm not quite as crazy as I thought.

Back at the end of June when my doctor uttered that terrible word ... cancer... the first thing I did when I got home was start this blog and write down how I felt.  It was almost a physical need to get it all out of my head and into black and white.  Then I knew I might get at some sleep that night.

A pretty crazy response to a cancer diagnosis?

Apparently not.  According to studies done by James Pennebaker, writing can help people deal with heartbreak,  tragedy and anxiety.  And cancer.  Therapists have been telling us for a while that talking about our troubles helps us cope but we all know that it can be difficult to find someone to talk to about cancer.  With all those hospital appointments, there's no way I'll find time to talk to a therapist.  I'd talk to my husband but, frankly, he has enough to be coping with.  It helps to talk to my friends but I don't want to spend every social occasion going on and on about my cancer.  Anyway, that can be a bit scary, right?  James Pennebaker says:

"The killer problem is when you talk to a friend or even a therapist, you’re putting yourself on the line. For it to work that other person has to be completely accepting, and the reality is we don’t tell our friends a lot of really deep and personal things because we think it might hurt the relationship. That’s the beauty of writing. You don’t have to worry about other people looking down on you or feeling nervous about putting yourself out there."

But tapping away at a computer keyboard is not quite the same as sharing a coffee with a friend.  Can it really have the same effect?  Yes, says James Pennebaker.

"Across multiple studies, people who engage in expressive writing report feeling happier and less negative than they felt before writing. Similarly, reports of depressive symptoms, rumination, and general anxiety tend to drop in the weeks and months after writing about emotional upheavals (Lepore 1997). Other studies found improvement in overall well-being and improved cognitive functioning (Barclay & Skarlicki 2009)."

According to his analysis, writing helps us sort out our thoughts and make sense of them.  We need a sense of being part of a story rather than simply being buffeted by the misfortunes of life.  Blogging was an addiction that I discovered when I was fortunate enough to live in Africa for a few years.  I started as a way to keep family in touch with how we were getting on, but soon I found that I was writing for my own benefit.  I loved the splendour, the beauty, the adventure of my life.  But that came with a good dose of squalor, difficulty, setbacks and struggle.  Soon after I started blogging, we were on holiday when our car broke down in the middle of no-where and we were left trying to figure out what the heck to do under a hot African sun with no RAC to call to our aid.  Instead of being upset about a holiday 'ruined', I found myself mentally planning my next blog post.  Instead of a being a disaster, it was a great story.

So perhaps that's why I instinctively turned straight to the comfort of the blog as soon as I was diagnosed.  Cancer - that's one heck of a story!

I like blogging because it's open to those who want to read it and I know that my posts have helped others which gives me a lovely, warm feeling.  But I'm ambivalent about going 'public' with the rawness of it all so I write this under a pseudonym and I haven't shared with friends or family.  According to James Pennebaker, you don't even have to go that far to gain the benefits of writing.  Just write twenty minutes a day for four days, he counsels, and plan to tear it all up afterwards. 

"Find a place you won’t get disturbed, and I want you to sit down and just begin writing about the thing that’s bothering you. Don’t worry about grammar or sentence structure or spelling. Just write. This is for you and for you alone. Plan to tear up what you’ve done when you finish. It’s not a letter to somebody. It’s not something for you to show someone to convince them that you are right. This is for you alone."

Try it.  Take all those cancerous feelings of anger, frustration, unfairness, fear and helplessness and put them down on a page.  Work through them and get them out of your head.  No-one will judge what you have written so write exactly how you feel.

Then tear it into a million little pieces.

Honestly.  It helps.

Ouch - Neupogen

Ouch.

Now that I am neutropenic (with a titchy white blood cell count), I can't have chemo this week and instead I have to have a course of 5 injections of Neupogen to boost my bone marrow.

And Neupogen has put my Taxol aches in their place.  The first injection was fine but today the nurse arrived to give me the second and, soon afterwards, the bones in the base of my spine, hips and upper legs started up a major protest.  I even skipped my exercise class, thus breaking my own rule to keep moving no matter what to get through the symptoms,  but today even walking felt something of a challenge.

So I sat on a hot water bottle at home instead.

At least the pain reassures me that perhaps the injections are working. It is a little scary walking around snotty, sneezy, wintery Brussels with a white blood cell count of only 200.  Basically, my immune system can't fight off anything just now, so I'm keeping everyone at arm's length and using antiseptic gel on my hands all the time. My husband would rather that I just stayed at home but I pointed out that most days I end up in a lift with a load of sick people at the hospital anyway so I can't see the harm in making my coffee date. 

And I was an utter rebel today - I had a real, caffeinated latte!  Coffee is supposed to reduce the effectiveness of Taxol but I figured that it couldn't do much harm if I have to have a week off from Taxol anyway.  Oh my, did it taste good!

I'm not sure what to do about the pain.  The doctor told me yesterday I could take paracetamol or neurophen if I needed it.  But my oncologist warned me about taking anything which might mask a fever: if I get the slightest temperature I have to rush to A&E in case I end up with sepsis.  Anyway, this morning I felt so rough that I daringly took a paracetamol and that did take the edge of it.

At least the injection itself doesn't hurt, it goes straight into the roll of fat at my stomach and I don't feel a thing.  It is annoying to wait at home for the nurse though, and I'm too much of a wimp to stick a needle into myself.  So the nurse showed my husband how to do it and tomorrow he will become my nurse.

My husband is a highly talented person who could turn his hand to most careers.  But being a nurse is definitely not an obvious choice for him.  And yet he has already surprised me: after my mastectomy he had to change the dressings and clean my newly scarred boy-chest.  Not, I am sure, what he imagined when I swept down that aisle in my white princess dress and he looked me in the eye and said, 'In sickness or in health.'  

I love him more than ever for it.

But I'm still rather nervous about him sticking a needle in me tomorrow.

A third of the way through Taxol...and severely neutropenic

I'm on a downer today.

I feel as if I've done the tearful drive home from the hospital too many times.  And it always seems to be raining...  I went for my routine blood test this morning and my white blood cell count is super low;  severely neutroprenic at only 200.  So there's no question of having my weekly Taxol tomorrow and instead I need to have five once-a-day injections of Neupogen to boost my bone marrow.

It's not a big deal.  I guess I'm just not very good at coping with changes of plan.  It's another week's delay, so  it looks as if I'll be on chemo into the new year.  That's a bummer when I'd hoped to be done before Christmas.

And I'm a bit scared of this injection as I've read reports of people suffering severe bone pains - oh, I so shouldn't have Googled! 

On a more positive note, I've been coping well with Taxol.  The worst thing has been the lack of sleep: first of all I'm steroid-jittery for a couple of nights.  Then come the hot flashes that have me throwing off the duvet one minute, then pulling it back on when I'm all shivery again the next minute.  Then come the muscle aches. 

But none of the symptoms have been too severe.  I've been able to get on with life as usual, with just the occasional afternoon nap (though I did fall asleep in front of the computer once and woke up dribbling on the keyboard...). 

And I haven't been on a downward slope in quite the way I expected when they told me the symptoms were 'cumulative'.  Week two was my toughest so far with painful aches and lots of tingling in finger and toes.  Here we go, I thought.  Already this bad and still seven sessions ahead of me...  But Week Three has gone rather well with barely a tingle in my toes.  Perhaps my lovely friends who took me on a spa day made all the difference.  That sounds like a splendid excuse for a weekly spa date.

So it's only those pesky white blood cells causing the problem and there's not a lot I can do about that.  I just need to pull myself together and be grateful that it's not been worse.  And now I have tomorrow morning unexpectedly free.  Hmmm, perhaps I could fit in another spa?

Keep Moving!

Twice a week I drive up to the hospital and head down to the gymnasium in the bowels of the building.  Usually when I arrive, the previous exercise group is just finishing up but I can always tell who is in my group: the other group has babies and bags under their eyes, my group has headscarves and wrinkles.  It really doesn't seem so long ago that I was in the antenatal group myself...

My group are a jolly bunch, all things considered.  Sometimes someone has to sit down for a bit because they feel dizzy and none of us exactly drip with sweat due to exertion but we all have a go and a bit of a giggle at the same time.  Not bad when most of us are doing chemo, some have metastasised breast cancer, one has ovarian cancer, all of us have been under the knife.

We do the machines first and I always get frustrated because I have to go slowly or my heart rate flies up.  Apparently this is because of low red blood cells: the heart has to work harder to get enough oxygen around the body and so the physios circle round us reminding us again and again to breathe.  Then we do some work on the mats, the sort of small movements that look easy but cause agony by the time you've done it twenty times. Picture a hall full of women of a certain age wearing headscarves and attempting to exercise with strips of elastic and ankle weights...we must look hilarious.

And why does the hospital provide these sessions?  Because research has shown that physical exercise reduces the chances of the cancer returning.  Significantly.  In the old days they were always telling you to rest when you were on chemo, now the advice is to keep moving.  And it makes me feel better too: often I don't feel like going but I always have more energy afterwards.  Today my muscles still have the Taxol ache but at least they have a good reason to ache now! 

I have to confess that, before all this, I was getting a bit on the middle-aged flabby side.  Is it possible that I'll end up in better shape than I was before my diagnosis?  I can live in hope.

Tips for Tying a Headscarf (on a small, bald head)

When I knew my hair was going to fall out, I bought a wig.  I love my wig and I've had lots of complements on my 'new hair cut', but I don't like to wear it in the house, or when I want to get cosy at chemo sessions, or when I exercise and get sweaty.

So I bought a turban for these occasions but I hate it: it makes me feel like a sick person.  I had more luck with a cute peaked cap that is great for wearing to walk in the park but it feels odd to wear it inside.

So there was only one option left... learn to tie a headscarf.  

I've never been good with scarves. Some women seem to be able to effortlessly drape them over themselves and look instantly chic.  When I wear a scarf it looks odd or bulky or it comes unwound and drives me mad all the time, so I didn't think I'd be any better at figuring out a headscarf, even though I have a selection of lovely scarves to choose from.

First step when you don't know how to do something: Google it.

Googling How to Tie a Headscarf revealed some great step by step guides, some with videos to show you how to make sense of the instructions.  But the vast majority seem to rely on tying the ends of the scarf back over the front of the head to create a bow or a knot or a twist on top - this looks great on other people but totally swamps my smallish head.  I end up looking more as if the headscarf is wearing me than the other way around.

The only style that looked good on my little head required an infinity (loop) scarf.  It's really easy - you just put it over your head like a hood then twist the rest until only a small loop remains.  Then you can coil the twist up into a bun and put the loop around it to keep it in place.  It makes a cute, twenties-style skull cap with a bun behind or to the side - not too overpowering on a small head.

But the problem was that I only had one infinity scarf and loads of other scarves that I would like to wear.  So I experimented to find some other ways to create a similarly tight, streamlined look.

The trick with rectangular scarves seems to be in the way you fold it first.  If I just put a regular scarf over my head like a hood and tie it back it makes me look like a hippy (that might look cute on a twenty-something but on a forty-something... not so much).  

So I here's what I do with a reasonably short, wide rectangular scarf; fold it in half lengthways then put it over my head so that it falls over my face.  I tie the ends loosely together at the back of my head, then fold the flap over my face up over the scarf on my forehead,  to create another layer.  Then I tighten the knot at the back of my head (this step is important or I end up looking  like a shepherd.  Not a good look this close to Nativity plays).  This pulls the skull cap tight just as with the infinity scarf and then I wear the knot either at the back of the head or at the side.

Most of my scarves are too long for this though, and I'm left with long dangling ends down my back.  With these scarves I follow the same process but keep one of the ends very short.  Then, when I have tied it tightly, I drape the long end round my neck like a regular scarf.  So long as I keep the skull cap tight, it doesn't look too much as if I have just converted to Islam and it's super cosy on days when the central heating doesn't heat anything like enough to chase away those chemo chills...

I think the trick is, experiment with the scarves you have.  Try folding them in different ways, especially ones with different patterns on each side or down the length of the scarf.  Try draping the ends round your neck or twisting them up in a bun.  If your hair hasn't fallen out yet and you're struggling, don't worry.  It's much easier when you have a bald head to work on!

Happy headscarfing!

Same diagnosis...different treatment plan

Recently a friend of mine was diagnosed with breast cancer.  Her diagnosis is remarkably similar to my own: lobular, a large (4-5cm) tumour in one breast, hormone receptive. 

She lives in the Netherlands while I am next door in Belgium.

And yet her treatment plan is radically different from mine.

When I was diagnosed, I thought that the only reason for giving chemo before surgery (neoadjuvant therapy) was to shrink the tumour and so make surgery easier in cases where lumpectomy was an option.  So, when I was told that I would definitely need a mastectomy due to the size of my tumour, it seemed obvious that they would operate as soon as possible and give chemo later.  My chemo is simply intended to mop up any stray cancer cells that might have escaped round my body.

So I was rather surprised to hear that my friend will also definitely need a mastectomy and yet will start with chemo before the operation.   It turns out that there is another reason for neoadjuvant therapy - to keep an eye on whether the tumour is shrinking so that they can tell whether the chemo is working or not.  In my case, my tumour has already been taken out so we don't have the faintest idea whether FEC-T has been effective or not.  Presumably that is why they use a combination of drugs and prescribe a longer period of chemo....because they figure that some of it has to work eventually.

 There doesn't seem to be any definitive research showing that one way is better than the other.  But the interesting thing is that I didn't even know there was another way.  There was no discussion of options when I went into the hospital.  Perhaps this is a good thing because, truthfully, I'm not sure I could have coped with options in those terrible weeks and I probably needed someone to take charge and tell me what was going to happen.

But now we come to another difference in our treatment plans, where experts simply seem to disagree on what is the best option.

I was told that mastectomy with reconstructive surgery was not an option as I will need radiotherapy which causes too many problems with the new breast.

My friend in the Netherlands has been told that this is nonsense, with modern methods the radiotherapy will not cause any problems.

A quick Google seems to suggest that there are experts on both sides of this debate.  And some experts that argue that even if the radiotherapy does damage the new implant, it still produces better cosmetic results to have reconstructive surgery at the same time as the mastectomy and then remove the 'cooked' implant later and replace it.

I can't help wondering if my oncologist should have explained to me that there were other options, even if they weren't offered at my particular hospital.  Would I have switched hospital to benefit from reconstructive surgery at the same time as the mastectomy?  Probably not.  But now that the mastectomy is done, it's too late to even consider it.  I understand that my experts have taken a particular view on this issue and there is evidence to support them.  But if there is also considerable evidence on the other side of the argument, shouldn't they have been obliged to make sure I was aware of that?

I can't really regret the decisions that were made.  Chemo before or chemo after - probably it doesn't matter.  And, truthfully, I'm not sure that I will take the reconstruction road at all, and almost certainly wouldn't have risked problems with a fake breast that'd been over-radiated.  I guess I just feel uncomfortable that they weren't my decisions. 

On the other hand, a little Googling doesn't make me an oncologist.  Is that the point, that I just have to put my trust in the man who has spent years studying this field and is now making these decisions on my behalf? 

I suspect that might have been the best way in those crazy, early days when the diagnosis turned my brain to quivering jelly. But I think I will do my own research and ask more questions before any decisions are made on the next phase of my treatment.  After all, he may be the expert... but it's my body.

My Cancer, My Kids and My Friends' Kids

The effects of my cancer spread like ripples on water.

When I was first diagnosed, I worried about how my children would take the news.  Then I worried about how to tell my parents, wider family and friends.  But it is only recently that I have begun to appreciate that the ripples spread wider, including to my friends' children.

My own children seem to be coping remarkably well.  I have been open with them from the beginning, taking advice from my cancer nurse and not avoiding difficult words like cancer and death as in "I have cancer but I'm not going to die." 

They have reacted in quite different ways.  My 9 year old daughter needs to know what is going on, to touch my bald head, see my mastectomy scar.  I have let myself be led by her in answering her questions as far as she wants to take them.  It has undoubtedly added to her anxieties - she doesn't like being away from me for long in case anything happens to me so we have stopped sleep overs at friends' houses for now - but she seems reassured that I'm not hiding anything from her.  So long as she can see I'm ok, she seems to be coping fine.

My eleven year old son, however, prefers not to know too much and so I've respected his need not to have all the details thrust on him.  For a while he really didn't want to see my bald head so I was careful to keep my head covered, though he's used to it now.  He's taken things very much in his stride.

Both are extra affectionate and do try to be helpful around the house when they remember but of course they tend to see my illness very much from their own perspective.  When I started Taxol, my daughter was touchingly concerned about how I was reacting to it - and then I realised that she was just hoping that I would be well enough to host her birthday party.  My son was hoping that I'd be late picking him up from a play date while I had my last chemo, until I pointed out that meant I'd be stuck up at hospital which wasn't so nice for me.  But that's normal, they're kids and their worlds revolve around them like all other kids.  They've been remarkably mature and supportive and I'm proud of them.

While I've been very conscious of the effect on my kids, I never considered that my diagnosis might fuel the anxieties of my friends' children until recently.  But of course, children look at what is happening and think, could that happen to my mum?  The unthinkable is suddenly there, right in front of them. 

It can be difficult for friends to know how to deal with their kids' questions, while respecting privacy.  A friend recently apologised because she was answering her daughter's questions and let slip that my 'new hair cut' is in fact a wig.  She felt bad in case I minded her daughter knowing.  My personal view is that parents need to be open and answer questions as honestly as possible.  I have no problem with kids running up to me in the playground and asking me if my hair is really a wig.  But I guess not all cancer sufferers would feel comfortable with that and so parents need to take a judgment call and warn their children that the friend with cancer might not like to talk about it.  And of course some of these issues are pretty personal.  I haven't had a playground question about my fake boob yet...

Sometimes reactions can be extreme.  Another friend was, unknown to me, dealing with the beginnings of OCD in her teenage daughter.  Unfortunately, my cancer diagnosis acted as a trigger for her daughter and became a focus for her anxieties.  Her daughter now cannot be around me, becomes stressed if I have been in their car or house and doesn't like her mother being near me.  No doubt, if I had not had my diagnosis then something else would have become the trigger for her.  But it has put my friend in an awkward situation.  She did the best thing she could and told me what was going on which helped me understand why she had sometimes been oddly distant.  It did also make me feel unpleasantly contaminated as well as guilty that I had caused the problem but I know that her daughter's illness is not rational and I mustn't take it personally.  I guess in this case, there wasn't much any of us could have done to assuage her daughter's anxieties.

An extreme reaction like that is unusual, but it is worth being aware that a cancer diagnosis can affect kids outside the immediate family, especially if close friends are heavily involved with supporting the cancer sufferer.  Parents might be upset on the cancer suffer's behalf and not realise that it is making their own children anxious.  With younger children, it is important to make sure they understand that cancer is not contagious so helping out is not putting their mummy at risk.  Kids are often both fascinated and disturbed by the loss of hair, so it can help to explain that it is a sign that the chemotherapy treatment is working and it will grow back.  It helps if the cancer sufferer can be open with their friends about what is going on so that parents are equipped to answer questions.  Children deal much better with things that are explained in age-appropriate ways, no matter how scary, than with things that are hidden from them. 

And there can be good effects too.  One friend found that her children had lots of questions and she answered them openly and patiently.  The family came to visit and saw that I was still the same, just wearing a headscarf.  Soon afterwards, she was also diagnosed with lobular breast cancer.  My experience made it easier for all the family to understand what was happening, and to know that breast cancer can be just another thing that the family takes in its stride.

Having cancer totally sucks.  But if we can be open and resilient in the way we deal with it, we can be role models for all the children in our community.  My daughter and my recently-diagnosed friend's daughter have been good friends since they were toddlers.  I think they will both grow up to be strong women who can cope with what life throws at them.  

What Should You Take To Chemotherapy?

Going to your first session of chemotherapy can be intimidating.  It's difficult to know what to expect, and what you should bring with you.

Even my limited experience of chemotherapy has shown me that the experience varies a great deal depending what regime you are following.  When I was on FEC, I would spend a good four hours or longer at hospital while the contents of five different bags dripped into me one after the other.  But, because I had a PICC line inserted, I could easily type emails, surf the net, write.  Now that I am on Taxol, my session is more like two to three hours.  But it is administered by IV so I have a needle stuck into the crook of my arm and have to keep it completely straight.  The needle has to be in my right arm due to my left breast mastectomy and, given that I'm right handed, suddenly it is frustratingly difficult to do anything except read.

The environment can be quite different in different hospitals too.  I'm lucky that my hospital uses two bed roomed rooms, so we are reasonably private, have a bed with a TV and space for visitors.  Other hospitals put everyone together in a large ward in reclining chairs.  It's worth getting an idea of what to expect from your oncologist before you start.

It helps to come prepared for anything.  Here are a few tips based on the things that I think are important to bring with you.

·         A relaxed attitude.  Even if your oncologist has explained things in advance, it might not turn out as you expect.  Hospitals are busy places and things can, sometimes, take forever.  When I had my first chemo session I had a PICC line inserted and had to go down to surgery to be seen by the anaesthetist and I ended up waiting for two hours before I was seen.  So I was in hospital a good three hours before I even started chemo.  Then, every time a bag finished I had to call the nurse to change to the next bag.   Sometimes it can take twenty minutes before someone comes and when you have five bags to get through, that adds significantly to the time.  But, I can pretty much guarantee that those nurses aren't hanging out in the office having a gossip.  They're working flat out and there's no point getting angry.  Come prepared to take as long as it takes, get comfy and wait it out.

·         Make sure you have all your paperwork and any hospital ID with you.  It helps to have an idea where you are going before you arrive.  It's also a good idea to have a notebook and paper so you can take notes: for FEC I needed to remember lots of instructions about the drugs I might need to take.  It's also useful to have your diary with you so you can schedule in future appointments. 

·         Wear comfy clothes and warm socks so your feet don't get cold!  I prefer not to wear my wig and tend to just wear a comfortable headscarf.

·         Bring some reading material.  You might be there for some time.

·         I love my smart phone.  There is free WI-FI at my hospital so I can use it to surf the net and send emails (though I need to type left handed these days.)  When I started with FEC I tried bringing my laptop so that I could blog but I found it awkward to manage on the bed and there were no sockets in the room so the battery died anyway.  On Taxol, with the IV in my arm, it would be impossible to use a laptop.  Obviously it's also important to have a phone so that you can let people know if you are delayed.  Whatever device you use, make sure its charged up.

·         I also use my phone to listen to music.  Don't forget headphones.

·         I always bring a bottle of water.  I find it helps to keep hydrated and if I have to ask for water I never drink enough. So I bring a litre bottle of my favourite sparkling water and make sure I drink the lot.

·         It's a good idea to have some snacks to hand too.  Funnily enough, I never fancy sweet stuff when I'm chemo though normally I'm a chocolate fiend.  I like to have dried fruit, nuts or corn cakes handy for when the munchies strike.

·         You can bring a friend too.  The first time, it's particularly useful if someone can come with you.  Normally I go in on my own now but I text my room number around when I am settled and often a friend pops in for a chat which is a lovely way to pass the time.  Last time my friend brought a flask of hot water and herbal tea bags with her - an excellent visitor!

·         A pre-arranged pick up.  The first time you try any new regime, you really need someone to take you home afterwards as people can react badly.  For me, I've always felt absolutely fine to drive myself home afterwards and I have done that on a couple of occasions.  But my friends are eager to help and want to offer lifts and I must admit that it is lovely to have a chauffeur waiting at the door to take me home.  It helps with the parking fees too which can add up quickly if you have to leave your car in the hospital car park most of the day.

I hate that I have to spend so much time at hospital.  But now I'm well prepared to make the most of my chemo time.  When I arrive, I get straight on my bed, spread myself out and use the time to catch up on emails, have a chat with a friend or just as some relaxing reading time.  It's not so bad.

A Good First Week on Taxol

I can't believe how good I feel today.

Not just 'coping with everything well' but actually bouncingly, energetically, happy good.

It's easy to only post when problems surface so today I wanted to take a moment to remember that there are good days too: days like today when I was up early despite being home late last night after seeing Peter Gabriel live, saw friends, exercised and still feel full of fizz. 

Not bad for someone more than half way through their chemo.

Last week I started the first of nine weekly doses of Taxol - having been advised that my white blood cell count was too low to allow me to have Taxotere once every three weeks as planned.

I wasn't pleased to be faced with having chemo every single week but the first week of Taxol has gone pretty well.  I was surprised to suffer from mild, morning nausea the first few days as I didn't have any nausea with FEC but I guess that's the way it goes.  I was even more surprised to find my cheeks were burning all day the day after chemo but a quick Google confirmed that it's a reasonably common side effect (and not really a problem if you can ignore the sneaking suspicion that you've done something really embarrassing to merit your flaming cheeks).  And then the hot flashes in the night had me repeatedly throwing off the duvet and then pulling it back on as I froze five minutes later...just as well I've already opted to vacate the marital bed during chemo or I'd have driven my husband mad.

I had anticipated the aches in my legs and chest from day three, but they were no worse than the ache you feel after an over strenuous work out.  And finally, my fingers and toes started tingling which suggests that neuropathy (numb fingers and toes) will follow in later sessions. 

But, so far, nothing to stop me doing what I'd planned for a busy week.  So, overall, I think I'm glad to have escaped the 'Taxotere truck' as I've heard others describe the onslaught of Taxotere symptoms.  Of course, symptoms are cumulative and I have 8 sessions to go... but I'm taking one step at a time.

The best news came this morning when I went for my blood tests.  Last week, my white blood cell count was 1,100  - marginal even for Taxol (and too low for Taxotere), so I was sure that it would be lower still this week as there hadn't been much time for my body to recover from the last dose.  But it has actually doubled to 2,200!  It's still half a 'normal' white blood cell count which should be 4,500 but quite high enough to allow me to have my second dose of Taxol tomorrow.

One down, eight to go. 

So far so good.

Five More Good Things About Having Cancer

I'm feeling a bit down this week as I've had to switch from Taxotere to weekly Taxol.  So it's a good time to go back to my challenge - to find genuinely good outcomes that wouldn't have come about without the Cancer (whilst accepting that Having Cancer Totally Sucks).  I am grateful for  things like living in a country with good healthcare or the fact that they caught it when they did, but these are merely mitigating factors  not good outcomes. 

A few weeks ago I did a list of 10 Good Things About Having Cancer - here are another five.

1. Everyone thinks your amazing
Seriously.  Just plaster a smile to your face and crack a few jokes about being bald and everyone will shake their heads and declare that you are just so brave.  Am I brave?  Of course not!  It's not like I have any choice, I've been dealt a crap hand and I just have to get on with living life as best as I can.  Yet somehow this brings me close to sainthood status.  This is cool.  Enjoy.

2. No nits
The signs have gone up on school warning that those dreaded head lice are creeping through our children's hair again.  Usually the mere idea is enough to have me scratching away until my scalp hurts.  Not this time.  Even if my kids get it, I will be a bald, Nit-Free Zone.

3. No shaving
I have no hair on my head - nor pretty much anywhere else.  Usually as winter approaches I get rather lazy about shaving and end up cultivating a jungle of hair on my legs, which can be toe curlingly embarrassing if they get exposed unexpectedly.  Not this year.  My legs and under-arms are effortlessly smooth.  

4. Expanding your culinary range
My experience has been that people really want to help.  Really.  So a friend has organised them into a dinner rota and now everyone takes it in turns to cook for me each night for a week after each chemo session.  What luxury!  And what fabulous dishes.  Most of us are guilty of falling into a culinary rut, but this is opening my eyes to a world of alternative supper menus.

5. Guilt free chat sessions
It's so difficult to find proper time to catch up with friends and easy to feel guilty about snatched coffees when really you should be doing laundry/shopping/ironing.  But I've taken to inviting people to join me at the hospital while I have my chemo session.  Hours of guilt free chatting, it's not like you can be doing much else while hooked up to an IV after all!

I have nine sessions of Taxol, radiotherapy and hormone therapy still ahead so plenty of time to find a few more.   Can I get this list to twenty?  Suggestions welcome!