Looking for My Balance Again

Now this is one of  the holidays I like to acknowledge: St. Patrick’s Day, when the leprechauns appear, if only in our imaginations, and the city of Chicago, city of broad shoulders, turns its river green, on purpose.  This is a fun holiday — not like stuffy ol‘ Presidents Day — along with April Fool’s Day, May Day, and the Japanese holiday of Setsubun (early February, when the custom is to throw roasted soybeans around the outside of your house to dispel demons and the bad luck they bring).  I might just don that metallic green wig I was given.

Speaking of hair — I received a few comments about the photos attached to the last update.  One person said they didn’t look very good.  (I agree.  My regular photographers were off duty, so I took those myself.)  Another thought they were cute.  Someone else said I have that “lesbian look.“ And my brother says I now look like him.

I’ll choose to consider that a compliment.

It’s been a week since the last of the cancer treatments, and I’m starting to realize how all-consuming the trek has been. Now that the trips across town have stopped, I feel rather like the treadmill I’ve been on has abruptly been turned off.  You know that jerky feeling of motion, then sudden not-motion.  You sway, stumble a little, and fumble to regain your balance. And then you stand a moment and wonder, “Now what was that?”  This rebalancing may take awhile. No more blood counts.  No Popsicles.  No zap count. And it seems ages ago that I rode the steroid roller coaster.  Productive though I was during that time, I don’t miss the dexamethasone high.

No more schedules, or measures of progress.  No more counting down days on the calendar. I now enter the recovery phase.  I still apply the skin ointment, though all the redness and itching have gone.  I am still trying to rid my body of the remnants of the chemical overload, and I still — and always will — think about prevention. Though I greatly admire those who have done it, I do NOT want to repeat this particular journey.

In the realm of helping the body recover, I investigated another type of body work last week.  My usual massage therapist, the one who uses Reiki, books up pretty quickly and so, in the interim of waiting for my next appointment with her, I took her recommendation to see a different massage therapist, one who incorporates craniosacral therapy.  This type of therapy ranks among the many approaches to clearing the body’s energy channels, in this case addressing the fluids.  As she explained it, craniosacral therapy is designed to keep the 70% of the make-up of the body — its fluids (spinal, blood, etc.) —  moving unobstructed, in the same way that Reiki works to keep the energy channels clear and open.  It’s a similar sort of laying on of hands.

Does it work?

Don’t know for sure but afterwards, as I stood up to get dressed, I felt a distinct, pleasant tingling just under my skin, and I paused for several minutes to allow the sensation to linger. Now this particular piece of the journey I would indeed like to repeat.

Last week I also paid another visit to the naturopath, who’s scaled back the plan once again: fish oil daily, Vitamin D every other day, and a recommendation for an herbal concoction to replace the Ativan for sleep.  He said I can go back to the CoQ10, the enzyme that bolsters the heart, for about 6 months if I like.  Despite the recent report in the New York Times, he sees no special benefit in taking aspirin, though I’m going to do it anyway since it helps with heart disease — a hallmark of our family tree.

If I want to go beyond that for prevention, he recommended curcumin, also known as turmeric. It‘s a regular ingredient of Indian food, but needs to be bound with an oil to be absorbed by the body.  So my choice is this —  I could either buy the spice and mix it with those shots of olive oil he once mentioned, or I could just buy the properly calibrated capsules from the compounding pharmacy.

Guess which one I chose?

He also suggested a concoction of  “magic mushrooms” as a preventive.  Not the kind that produce hallucinogens, thankfully (the steroid high being quite enough for me), but shiitake, maitake, and a host of others, including something called turkey tail.  And of course this mixture comes in capsule form. There’s no medicinal element  in nature that we can’t try to put in a capsule.

I’m still wading through my stack of literature about the transition period after treatment. So far, I’m seeing a clear distinction drawn between cure and healing, which is good.  One of the booklets produced by the LiveStrong organization (Lance Armstrong’s group) includes a link to a site where you can document your family medical history to generate a health tree: familyhistory.hhs.gov.  I haven’t tried it out yet, but it ‘s probably time to do so.

As for the next steps in my journey, I’m not sure where they’ll lead.  Which way do I go — back to what was before or on to something new?  (Spring implies something new.) Do I act like it didn’t happen — all the while fearing it will reappear at exactly the moment I‘ve finally forgotten it? Or do I just consider this experience a speed bump on my personal highway?  In that case, do I take the exit to hypochondria, imagining that every odd twinge heralds a return to the highway? So many choices. Which way to go?

Stay tuned…..

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Of Presidents, Valentines and Shamans

President’s Day. Another one of *those* holidays.  Here in Olympia, it’s another day to go shopping. A local store opened at 7 a.m. for their special sale today. I can think of nothing that would get me out of bed to go shopping at 7 a.m.

If I still lived in Laredo, Texas, however, I might be moved to get up early, at least in honor of George Washington‘s birthday, which is what President‘s Day used to be.  That’s a town that knows how to celebrate this holiday with style. The festive events are scheduled over the course of a month and include a historical George Washington performance, a Comedy Jam for George, and the Princess Pocahontas Pageant and Ball (to see an example of the elaborate costumes, go here: http://www.wbcalaredo.org/home/events/princesspocahontaspageantandball.html)

There’s also a Founding Fathers 5K run (imagine Thomas Jefferson running in tights and wig), a parade, the Society of Martha Washington Colonial Pageant (as equally extravagant as the Pocahontas ball), and a jalapeno festival, among other events.  Never mind that Laredo was established by the Spanish in 1755, when George Washington was only in his 20s. Never mind that George and Pocahontas never met and probably never even saw a jalapeno pepper. As I learned the year I lived there, it was a great excuse for the town to have a party and my students to miss classes.

Rain continues off an on here, and in Vancouver where the Olympics are underway.  We’re about 300 miles south of that city, and can actually say we’ve been skiing at Whistler, where the ski events are taking place. One hummingbird, Robin Hood, has reappeared sporadically to visit the feeder.  In addition to crocuses, we now have some early daffodils blooming.

My big flower mystery, though, is an interior one.  On Friday, the UPS truck arrived in the driveway and, after tossing our dog the obligatory treat so he could get to the porch intact (the dog picks and chooses when he wants to be a watchdog, so the deliverymen always come prepared with treats), the driver left a long box outside my door.  Inside were a dozen gorgeous red roses with a card that read Happy Valentine’s Day.  The trouble is, I don’t know who sent them.  My husband claims it wasn’t him, and there is nothing on the package or card to indicate where they came from.  So  — perhaps I have a secret admirer?  Or perhaps it was one of you? Anyone want to claim credit???   (I’ll never know if you’re fibbing!)  Wherever they came from, they brightened my day.

The Zap Count: 18 down, 15 to go.  I’m past the halfway point.  Yippee!!!

My visits to the radiation center progress routinely. In, out, zap, zap (and zap and zap). My brain goes numb — intentionally — during the treatment, and I listen to whatever plays on the radio that day. A little Barry Manilow, some Whitney Houston (incredible voice, too bad about the drugs). Today it was the Eagles and Phil Collins.  Looks like we’re moving up to hits of the 80s.

Though the treatments are physically far less difficult than undergoing chemotherapy, I am burdened by the daily reminder of this disease that my visits bring. The treatment period is much shorter than that of chemo (6 and a half weeks vs. 24), but I’ll actually make more trips to the radiation center (33 total) than I did to the infusion center. The technicians tell me that some people fall asleep on the table during treatment, and some actually snore.  The most excitement I’ve had was the day a technician accidentally pulled off my gown.  She had been reaching up to adjust the disc of the linac and caught the edge of my gown with her bent elbow.  When she moved away, so did the gown — rather like whisking a tablecloth off a table.  The technicians apologized, of course, and the next day we made a joke of it. Today I suggested we pretend the linac was just a fancy sort of tanning bed.  The technicians guffawed and said, “You’d get one strange-looking tan here.”  True, but I still think the room could be dressed up a bit with palm trees and beach umbrellas painted on the walls.

Dr. W says things are going well.  I’m starting to see redness in the skin of the treatment area, and my left armpit feels a bit swollen and uncomfortable. My body continues to work out the remnants of chemotherapy, a certain sort of heaviness and stiffness in the hips and legs, and I‘m told it can take up to a year before I feel normal, though by then I probably won‘t know what normal was.  On the bright side, my eyebrows and lashes have begun to reappear. And on Friday, the radiation technicians handed out Valentine’s chocolates to us patients.

Heading further down the path of healing methods, beyond the crystals and color I mentioned last week, I came across a publication called the New Spirit Journal, which is published in Seattle. It contains articles and advertisements from different types of healers in the area, everything from the Shamanic Herbal Tradition of the Wise Woman to balancing your doshas with music (the three primary doshas being earth, wind and fire — now you know where that band got its name).  Many of these modalities derive from ancient practices and focus primarily on keeping the body’s energy channels open.  My massage therapist has incorporated a bit of Reiki into the sessions, and I’ve found that it seems to increase the positive effects of the massage, making my body feel lighter and “clearer“ afterward.  Reiki is an energy therapy from Japan that involves the practitioner laying hands on certain areas to help open energy channels and promote healing.  Acupuncturists clear blocked channels with needles.  Practices such as tai chi are intended to keep the body’s energy flowing. You have to think that there’s something valuable in these techniques if they’ve been passed on through the centuries.

But as with things like used cars and appliances, it’s caveat emptor — buyer beware!  Among the classified ads at the back of the paper is one by the Reiki Ranch, located a little south of here, where you can become certified in Reiki and, while you’re at it, learn techniques for ghost-busting and ridding yourself of monsters and spooks. And then there’s the man who bills himself a psychic, clairvoyant and healer, who just also happens to be an interior designer.  Not one to miss an opportunity, he can do readings over the phone too. An ad for a different place points out that if you can’t actually pay for the classes at a place called Peace Communities, you can barter for services while you earn your “peace points.”   Trade a little housecleaning, earn some peace points….

In lieu of photos this week, here are links to a couple humorous sites I found while surfing:

1.  For those of you who, like me, can’t get your brain to stop whirring sometimes, take two cheap words of advice from Bob Newhart : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T1g3ENYxg9k
2. And here’s something for those of you who get hungry while studying genetics.  Look for teeth marks on the short ones: http://www.seriouseats.com/2009/10/gummy-worm-chromosomes-art.html

What Color is Your Therapy?

Where have all the hummingbirds gone?  Haven’t seen any for several days, and I even put out fresh food. Maybe they’re seduced by this warm weather we have (thumbing my nose at those of you buried under snow!) and believe spring has come.  Perhaps it has. My crocuses and spring cyclamen are blooming.  Not just up, but tricked out in their bright colors. A few really optimistic people have been riding around with their car tops down.

The Zap Count:  13 down, 20 to go.
Oooh, I like these numbers.  Almost half way, and they decrease much more rapidly than did the ones for chemotherapy.

No side effects yet that I can see, though some effects of chemotherapy seem to be hanging around.  I’ve lost all my eyelashes and most of my eyebrows, though, as you’ll see in the photos, my hair is coming back in.  That’s the conundrum: what’s the difference between eyebrow hair and head hair that one should fall out early and the other come back late?

The radiation routine continues as before — drive in, drive out (some day maybe they’ll have drive thru).  I keep trying to distinguish the technicians, but in their white lab coats and flat-ironed hair (some dark, some light), they look alike to me, and they don’t exhibit much personality in the short time I’m on the table.  Polite, yes, and certainly efficient.  But not a lot to hang a conversation on.  The most I’ve learned from them is that I don’t get to take my custom-molded back rest home with me when it’s all over.  Who’d have thought it — a radiation center that‘s ecologically conscious. They *recycle* the rests, deflating them when one patient leaves and reinflating them to suit the new, uh, customers.  So maybe in this realm, there are the 4 Rs — reduce, reuse, recycle for radiation.

On Thursday, I finally made connections with a few other patients.  There was a short backlog in the Fish room, since it’s the day a number of us see the doctor.  There was the woman about my age who comes and goes silently in her hat or headscarf.  We’re aware of each other passing through the rooms but have yet to speak.  The two older gentlemen were also there — the short one well-groomed and fully dressed, the tall scruffy one not at all bothered by the fluttering of the open back of his gown.

But on Thursday, there were two older women sitting in the chairs, looking eager for conversation, so I joined them.  The woman to my right was happy because this was her last week of treatment, and she was planning to celebrate that and her upcoming 80th birthday with a dinner at the Old Spaghetti Factory.  She did not appear to be 80, but was a vibrant, energetic woman with many things left to accomplish in her life.  The woman to my left, however, looked every one of her 70-some years, and described how she drives herself 45 minutes each way every day because her husband had a stroke and can’t accompany her.  She complained that the radiation was upsetting her stomach, but was glad she was halfway through.  We all seem to be interested in the numbers.

This week I again saw Dr. R, who took a cursory look to see if there were any skin changes, and then fell into conversation with me. My husband had told me that he speaks Japanese, so I asked about that. Like my children, he is “hafu” (the term the Japanese use for mixed-race people).  His American father, like many soldiers, was stationed in Japan and brought home a Japanese wife. He asked to see photos of my children, out of that fascination we all have about identity and appearance, especially when searching for others like ourselves. Dr. R seems to be straddling a number of cultures.  Before he became a radiation oncologist, he was an engineer working for Exxon.

We talked briefly about the series of articles a couple weeks ago in the New York Times about the problems with radiation therapy.  The impact of the articles has led the American Society of Radiation Oncologists (ASRO) to look into the claims and work to reform practices and eliminate errors. Their current fact sheet helps put the issues into perspective and counteract the fears the Times has raised:  http://www.astro.org/PressRoom/NewsReleases/2010NewsReleases/documents/FactSheet.pdf

I’ve been going back to my earlier interest in the idea of healing vs. cure. A friend loaned me a book about healing with crystals, which also covers the use of color and “chakra energies” for maintaining health (Healing with Crystals and Chakra Energies, by Sue and Simon Lilly). These techniques are categorized in that area known as energy work, along with acupuncture, Reiki, and other approaches.  But as with Western medicine, understanding the dynamics of these modes involves a great deal of complexity.

In the pages of the book, I was hoping to find the magic crystal that would cure all my worries. Among them, there’s black tourmaline for grounding, protection, and to dispel negativity; obsidian for transformation; rose quartz to supply restful sleep; pink kunzite to remove emotional debris; yellow citrine to release fear and clear your thoughts; gold to repair damaged tissue (and maybe damaged bank accounts too?); verdelite to realign body structures; and turquoise to purify, bring joy, and boost the immune system. If I were to get all the stones with the potential to help, I’d need a pickup truck to haul them around.  When in doubt, though, amethyst seems to be the general, all-purpose crystal to rely on.  Rather like taking Tylenol for whatever ails you.

I was particularly interested in the information about color and its use for health.  I like pink, but have always begrudged it being the color assigned to girls from their moment of birth (*my* favorite color is blue!). Appending it to breast cancer only increased my dismay. It seemed that all women and their breasts were to be forever cast in pink.  But as my friend pointed out and the book confirmed, pink turns out to have been a wise choice since it’s a calming color that neutralizes negativity or destructive tendencies, and is a healing color, reducing the effects of disease and the fear it causes.  Deeper shades of pink  have apparently been used in prison cells and police stations to diminish chaos and violence.  So think pink — it’s not just for women anymore.

Other colors have other meanings and uses.  For instance, the book says brown is the color of disguise, to hide the true nature of a person, while grey reflects the desire to project emotional stability and detachment (notice it’s the desire to project them, not the actual qualities themselves).  The book notes that grey is the color favored by managers, businessmen and politicians.  Hm.

The power of color can also be used  for health and development. Color overlays on a book page are used for certain types of dyslexia, and wearing colored lenses can reduce migraines.  Perhaps there’s more than one reason to don rose-colored lenses if you suffer headaches.  Yellow can help students concentrate while studying. These powers of color transfer into food too, so that red foods are eaten for vitality (chocolate is considered a red food), orange foods release stress and promote creativity (eat more carrots!), and blue foods enhance communication. Got a presentation to give?  Eat a handful of blueberries beforehand.

The attached photos show where I am appearance-wise now.  You’ll notice a bit of those thematic colors of pink and grey.

I went through chemo and what I got was this lovely T-shirt.

Hair!

Spike.