Two Small Tributes to Two Big Men

In the last couple months, cancer has stolen two good men from my mother's life & by extension, from my life. I wanted to write a short tribute to them. Both were solid, salt-of-the-earth decent people who didn't deserve this horrible disease & who are greatly missed. RIP Larry. RIP Uncle Morris.

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Obituary for Larry MacDonald
Larry Archie MacDonald
3rd October 1949 ~ 24th November 2011

It is with our deepest sympathy that we announce the passing of Larry Archie MacDonald, 62, on November 24, 2011 in Fort St. John, British Columbia.

Larry was born on October 3, 1949 in Lloydminster, Saskatchewan to parents Malcolm (Scotty) and Rosie MacDonald. As a teen Larry, attended Hillmond High School and later became a businessman with Federated Co-op for 15 years and Redwood Esso for 17. He was involved with the Fort St. John Flyers and a sponsor for many community activities.

Larry is predeceased by his father Malcom (Scotty) MacDonald, his mother Rosie MacDonald and his sisters Helen Charles and Sharon MacDonald.

Larry is survived by his daughters, Laurie and Aarin MacDonald, youngest son Scott MacDonald and grandchildren Tysen and Emily Peacock. He also leaves to mourn brothers, Ray, Graham and Murray MacDonald and his sisters Florence Brown, Catherine MacDonald, Doris Napper and Janet Grant.

Special thanks to Dr. Mark Thompson, Dr. Ilona Amstutz, Hamre’s Funeral Chapel, the nursing staff at the Fort St. John General Hospital and the staff at the Chemotherapy Clinic for their professionalism, care and understanding.

Expressions of sympathy may be made in memory of Larry to the Fort St. John Palliative Care Society 9812-108th Ave Fort St. John, BC V1J 2R3, The Salvation Army 10116-100th Ave Fort St. John, BC V1J 1Y6, or The Canadian Cancer Society #108-9325-100th St Fort St. John, BC V1J 4N4.

A memorial service was held on the 5th December 2011 at 2PM at Pomeroy Hotel 11308 Alaska Rd Fort St. John, BC, V1J 5T5.

Holly's Memories: Larry was the closest thing I've ever had to a stepdad.

I was already off at my second year university when my parents divorced & shortly thereafter Larry & my Mom starting dating & moved in together, so the relationship we had was always as adults rather then him doing any "raising" of me. Still, I like to think that at age 19 when he came into my life, I was still learning lots & that I learned a lot from Larry. I later worked for the better part of a year in his Redwood Esso convenience store & got to see that side of him too.

Larry loved to laugh & have a good time. When he was jolly he always made sure to take everyone around him along for the fun. He was extremely generous, with both his money & time. He was the type who fed a man who couldn't pay, because he could see the guy was hungry & needed a meal. "It sucks not having money," he always said, he had been completely broke himself & he tried to help people out whenever he could. After several years things didn't work out between him & my mom, but we both continued to care for him.

The last time I saw Larry was in September 2009 at Casey's Pub in Fort St. John. Larry had had his first run-in with cancer at that time, but still had the same cheerful attitude, same smile, same laugh. Gave me a hug. I'll always remember this warm, funny man and my heart goes out to my mother, his children, and all those who miss him every day. RIP Larry.

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Obituary for Morris Phillips
Morris Howard Phillips
10th February 10 1943 ~ 31st January 2012

It is with our deepest sympathy that we announce the passing of Morris Phillips, 68, on January 31, 2012 in Fort St. John, British Columba.

Morris was born on February 10, 1943 in Edmonton, Alberta to parents Howard & Betty Phillips. As a teen Morris attended school in Calmar, Alberta. Through the years Morris worked hard to become a self employed contract operator for M&H Gas Well Servicing Ltd which he did proudly for the last 50 years. On May 7, 1964 Morris married his best friend Joann Elizabeth Robarts and would later become a father to three beautiful children. Morris was greatly involved at the Lake Point Golf & Country Club, one of his greatest accomplishment was when he shot a hole in one on Hole #5.

Morris is predeceased by his father Howard Phillips, his mother Elizabeth Phillips, and his brother Daniel (Danny) Phillips.

Morris is survived by his loving wife of 47 years JoAnn, his beloved children Shawn, Sherri and Dallise, and his cherished grandchildren Raschelle, Carter, Ryan, Tanniesha and Dayna.

Special thanks to the nurses at the Fort St. John Hospital for all their care and support they showed through this difficult time.

A memorial service was held Saturday, February 11, 2012 at 11:00am from the Royal Canadian Legion Hall. Morris will be laid to rest at the Woodlawn Cemetery at a later time. If so desired expressions of sympathy can be made in memory of Morris to the Fort St. John SPCA.


Holly's Memories: Morris was my mother's oldest brother & my oldest uncle.

I remember Morris from all the family events growing up. He was part of the tapestry of my young life, a large extended family that wrapped around me like a soft comforting blanket. Uncle Morris was a lot like my grandpa, his father: a gruff-on-the-outside man with a big heart just under a slightly crusty exterior. He was always there for my mom when she needed help or support, and I always loved & respected him for that.

In his last months Morris was in a great deal of pain, so although we're all sorry to see him go I am comforted by the idea that he has rejoined some of his favourite dogs & is walking the clouds with them now, in full health & strength and without any pain.

My heart goes out to my Auntie Jo, my cousins, and of course my mom who is having a horrible time dealing with his passing. RIP Uncle Morris.

Pain in the Ascites

Chemotherapy Round #10: Wednesday, 18th January - Tuesday, 7th February 2012

When updating people about my health, whether here or on FaceBook, I always strive for "honest-but-upbeat". I hate that cancer has made me a constant source of stress & anxiety for everyone who cares about me. I know worrying is the price for caring about someone, and that my loved ones pay it gladly, but still, it sucks. Stupid fucking cancer really, really sucks.

Which is why this update has been one of the hardest to share. It's been a very rough couple weeks.

When last I updated the blog, I'd had the PET scan showing that the cancer was still active rather than just scar tissue like the CAT scan suggested. This wasn't a huge surprise, because I'd been having more & more aches & pains, which although I diligently reported them to my doctors, I tried for the most part to write off as other things. I hoped that round #10 of chemo, full chemo, would knock the pain out again. That hasn't happened.

The chemo itself was one of the easiest rounds I've had - after 9 weeks since my last full chemo, my body had recovered more of my strength & energy than I thought. Just the pain was a problem, trying to find a new pain pill regimen that worked for me. At first I was hoping to manage with just over-the-counter stuff, like Tylenol, but that wasn't controlling it. So when we went in on Tuesday, 24th January to get the baby bottle off, we met with the pharmacist and she put me back on the Dilaudid.

We went home, expecting to be entering the recovery phase. Normally with chemo every day is a little better at this point. Instead, I struggled, and vomited a couple times, and by Thursday night in the wee hours I was tossing & turning, in pain, unable to get comfortable enough to sleep. I got up to go the bathroom and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and was shocked by how distended my belly was, especially my upper abdomen. Starting right under my boobs I had a giant curve, like I was pregnant. I realized then that my ascites had gotten much worse and were what was causing a lot of my discomfort.

What are ascites? It's fluid in your abdomen. It's similar to a blister - your body tries to protect itself by building a layer of fluid over the injury. In this case, the growing cancer. I had ascites at the time of diagnosis; they were drained off during the exploratory surgery that found the cancer, and hadn't come back because chemo had worked so well. Dr. Katakkar had mentioned months & months ago that the fact that they hadn't come back was one of the surest signs that chemo was working. When I'd had my exam this round on the Wednesday right before chemo, he'd commented that there was a little fluid back, but nothing like this.

What did this mean? That the ascites had gotten so much worse, right after chemo? Ascites are a common complication from stomach cancer, and I had read online about a woman who had to have hers drained regularly. At this point, in the wee hours of Thursday night, having a giant needle stuck in my abdomen sounded like sweet relief. I decided to call the cancer clinic about this new complication first thing in the morning, and had a fitful sleep where I dreamed about jabbing myself in the belly with a giant bbq fork and draining the fluid off that way.

Friday morning I called the Cancer Centre & asked about the possibility of draining the ascites. Dr. Katakkar was out of town, but the new oncologist, Dr. Fibich was in, and agreed to get me an ultrasound & see me. So Sterling & I headed down to the hospital. We went to the Cancer Centre for some bloodwork, then upstairs for the ultrasound, where both the technician & doctor called it a "moderate" amount of ascites - I hope I never have "severe"! The problem was (is) that it's not one giant pocket; like my cancer, it's spread throughout my abdomen in isolated pockets. They can't drain either of the two really painful ones, in my upper abdomen, because of all the organs up there (stomach, liver, etc.). They end up marking an "X" in sharpie on my lower left, down above my hip, and "2.5 cm", which the technician explains is where the pocket starts; the needle has to go in at least that far, probably more like 3-3.5 cms. Gulp!

Back down to the Cancer Centre to see Dr. Fibich. He was very nice. He had read a lot of my file, we talked about my case for a bit, he showed me the ultrasound. Unfortunately, he wasn't very optimistic about what drainage would do for me, since they couldn't touch the pockets that were really bugging me, and just in general he said he's found it usually only gives minimal relief. But after studying the pocket they'd marked, he was willing to try. He froze the area, and tried twice - managed to get a small sample which he sent for tests. It looked like thin blood. After the second attempt he gave up, saying that the relief wasn't worth the discomfort the procedure was causing. He told me to take as much pain killer as needed, and to come back in, even over the weekend to the emergency room, if things got worse, or if the ascites started causing breathing problems. Dr. Katakkar would be back Monday & he would discuss with him.

Dr. Fibich confirmed the ascites were a bad sign. The most likely explanation is that the chemo regimen is no longer working. However, given the timing, it's also quite possible that this was just where the cancer was heading, and my switch back to full chemo was too little, too late to stop it from happening. In that case I will hopefully get better with the next round of chemo. There's also a tiny possibility that the chemo itself, killing the cancer, caused the flair-up in irritation & the ascites. It will be Dr. Katakkar's call whether to switch my chemo, or to try at least one more round with this protocol. But bottom line, there's little to nothing anyone can do until the next round of chemo. I called back Monday, and Dr. Katakkar concurred with all of this. Nothing to do but wait it out.

That weekend, 28-29th January, was awful. I was restless, squirmy, no position was comfortable for more than a few moments. The best that could be found was lying on my left side in bed in a semi-fetal position. I couldn't even lie comfortably on the couch. So it was pretty much a total bed rest weekend, so boring, so uncomfortable. The way I describe it is, that feeling of being completely bloated after you've eaten way, way too much at a holiday meal. But you're actually hungry, because you haven't been able to eat anything. And what little I eat, I can't seem to keep down. I've puked more in the last two weeks than in my entire 33 year life before that. There's just no room for food, and/or the fluid is pressing on my stomach, causing me to heave.

I did get some relief late Sunday night. In the wee hours, lying there, trying to get comfortable, it was like something suddenly shifted, and some of the pressure fell away, maybe 10-20%. It's not a lot, but it's something, and I've been grateful. It's meant that in the last week I've been able to sit or lie on the couch some & watch TV, more than I was able to do last weekend. I can also lie on my other side as well, giving me in general more options of "comfortable" positions. I've barely been on the computer though. I can't find a comfortable way to sit in my computer chair. Twice already, writing this blog post, the pain's gotten so bad I've had to go lay down in bed for 10-15 minutes to let it pass before another short session in the chair.

I managed to make 48 hours without puking. But that ended abruptly yesterday. Friday 3rd February I was awakened out of a dead sleep at 5AM to run to the bathroom & worship the porcelain god. There is something oddly sweet about both cats coming in the bathroom & hanging out with me while I retched. Either that or they wanted to see Mommy hacking up a hairball, or most likely wanted to be fed.

Sterling woke up around 6AM, after the first 2 rounds of puking but before the 3rd. He's so sweet, he brings me gingerale & rubs my back while I hurl. I'm sure if I had any hair he'd hold it back for me. I am so lucky to have him.

Yesterday (Friday) was the most puking day yet - in addition to the 3 times in the morning, I puked up my dinner (a few bites of taco) right before bed. Then I was up every half hour, 4-5 times last night, pooping water as well. (I've also been struggling with constipation even before this, so have to try to get some laxative in between all the other meds as well). And then this morning, I took my morning meds, and immediately puked them up as well, in spite of there being absolutely nothing in my system at all. I was crying this morning, clutching the toilet, Sterling rubbing my back, and I just kept saying, "I'm so scared." I've been really lucky with my quality-of-life so far, but this... this is just not good.

I'm OK, really. I will get through this. This morning I decided to stop trying to be a hero & just take more meds already: more breakthrough pain medication when I need it, and the anti-nausea pills on a regular basis, since I'll be fine fine fine & then suddenly horribly nauseous & puking. Hopefully these measures will help.

Everyone I've told "offline" has been so sweet, and expressed such feelings of helpless. "If there's anything I can, just let me know." I wish there was, but at this point there's just nothing anyone can do. Just knowing I have all your good thoughts/vibes/prayers is a great comfort. Thank you. And I hope for better news to share with all of you after chemo next Thursday, like the ascites going down.

PET Scan

Chemotherapy Round #9: Wednesday, 28th December 2011 - Tuesday, 17th January 2012

Everything can change in an instant.

Well, not really, it just feels that way. Like when I was diagnosed back in June... the doc's best guess was that the cancer had started a year earlier, so it wasn't actually overnight... it just felt like it.

After my CT Scan in early December, when it was thought that my cancer was stable & Herceptin would hold it that way, my life started to slowly change. I started to get my strength back without the chemo knocking me down every three weeks, I planned to go back to work when my office reopened January 3rd, and I spent a lovely Christmas with my siblings. Then in January, actually going back to work was a bigger change, but one I was coping with. And then I finally got the PET scan that Dr. Katakkar had referred me for booked, for Monday 16th January.

Then, the Thursday afternoon 12th January, there was a message on the machine: they were cancelling the PET scan. Had to rebook for the next day, Tuesday 17th January. It cost nearly as much as the original airline ticket to reschedule, but I managed. Then Tuesday morning, after dropping me off at the airport, Sterling came home to another message: they wanted to cancel that day's appointment! Fortunately when they couldn't get a hold of anyone at my house, they called the local cancer agency, who read them the riot act & told them I was already on my way, and they'd better find a way to keep my appointment.

I got to Vancouver fine. My Dad flew in from Calgary to come with me to the appointment. We met up in the airport, took a stretch limo downtown (Dad was spoiling me) to get Dad checked in to his hotel (he stayed over to take a number of business meetings the next day, while I was flying home that evening). From there we took a cab to the BC Cancer Agency in Vancouver. I filled out the prescan questionnaire & signed the six page consent form for the contrast injection. My appointment was at 1:15PM and about that time they called me to come back - Dad wasn't allowed to come with me, so we said goodbye in the waiting room & he said he'd be back in 2 hours or so, when the scan was supposed to be over.

Unfortunately, the technician & I hit a small snag. While going over my forms, we had a discussion about the "Are you menopausal?" question. At 33 that should be a firm no, but one of the less-publicized side effects of chemo is that it puts you into menopause - I've had one single surprise-period in the last six months. However, given that one period, there was a teensy-tiny-highly-unlikely possibility that I could be pregnant (instead of menopausal). So the technician went to discuss with the doctor, and came back to tell me they had decided I had to have a pregnancy test to rule out that tiny possibility before they could inject me with the contrast. Up to the 3rd floor we went, where I was introduced to a student-mind-if-I-try-to-draw-your-blood? Being the nice little guinea pig I am, I consented. She managed to get the blood out of my left arm, but I have a serious bruise there - her technique still needs a little work.

Once my blood was drawn, I went back downstairs to wait for the results (not available until 2:30PM). Glad I left oodles of time when booking my flight! Around 2:30PM I noticed a bit of commotion, and lots of whispering. Eventually the doctor came in to explain. The pregnancy test came back slightly elevated, causing the stir. The doctor explained that because of the type of cancer I have, and the fact that the test was only slightly elevated/borderline, he was pretty sure that it was the cancer causing a false positive, and so he was comfortable going ahead with the scan. Thank goodness - if he'd told me I'd come all that way for nothing, I would have been pissed! To his credit, he did apologize for the delay & for making me take a test that turned out to not really give them any useful information.

At this point they let Dad (& his friend Jane who'd come to meet me) come back to keep me company for the ten minutes or so before they could inject the contrast. It was good to be able to update Dad on what was going on - the technician said he'd been pacing back & forth wearing out the floor in the waiting room. We had a nice little chat, before they had to leave, before the radioactive contrast was brought in. OMG it looked like a doomsday device! A giant lead contraption enclosing a little vial. The injection went quickly, then I had to lay quietly for an hour while it circulated throughout my body. Once that was done I changed into a hospital gown & was taken for the actual PET scan. It takes about 18 minutes to be run through the machine, scanned from mid thigh to neck, and you have to lay perfectly still with your arms over your head. It's amazing how twitchy you feel as soon as you're told you mustn't move. I was also a little claustrophobic - like a CT, the machine is a giant doughnut, but a much thicker one, I felt much more encased than with the CT.

Once the scan was over, I was given a letter for the airport, because I was still radioactive & might set off their scanners (as it turns out, I didn't, which doesn't fill me with confidence in the screening procedures). I changed and Dad I took a cab to the airport. We had dinner in the White Spot there (I wasn't allowed to eat all day before the scan, so was pretty hungry, it was 5:30PM - although Dad was thoughtful enough to pick me up a rice krispie square for right after the scan, which I'd devoured at first opportunity - it really hit the spot). Then it was hugs goodbye, I cleared security (without setting off the alarms) and went to catch my flight... which ended up being delayed 2 hours. Grrr! Didn't get home till 10:30PM.

Today (Wednesday) I was scheduled for bloodwork at 8AM because I was scheduled for my third Herceptin-only treatment tomorrow. The nurses managed to reschedule my 10:15 doc appointment to be in the afternoon when the PET scan report would be ready. I went to work for the morning, and tried to distract myself. Sterling came to pick me up for lunch, after which we went for my doc appointment. Waiting in that little room, we were very anxious. When you've waited weeks already, why do the last few minutes feel so long?

Finally Dr. Katakkar came in. You know it's not good news when your oncologist sits down on the bed next to you and puts his arm around you. He'd been hoping that the scan would show that my cancer was now operable, but it's not. In order to be operable, active cancer has to be restricted to just the omentum and the stomach itself, both of which they can remove. Instead, the PET scan showed I still have active cancer at multiple other sites throughout my abdomen: on the outside of my bowels, and on a ligament that runs between the stomach and the liver, for example. This is very disappointing for everyone. I have to go back on full chemo. Another three rounds, we'll do another PET scan, which will hopefully show improvement over this one. We're not going to bother doing the CT scans anymore, because they obviously don't show enough detail. Dr. Katakkar is very sweet, tells me to keep my spirits up: it is still his goal to get me into remission.

Driving home, Sterling & I talk. We are both more OK with this news then we would have expected. The truth is, I've had pains in my abdomen for about a month now. I did report them to the other doctor, at my last appointment, but at the time she thought it was highly unlikely they were cancer related. So many things can cause gut pain, and I'd just had a stable CT scan less than a month earlier. I tried to talk myself out of the pain, tell myself I was being a hypochondriac. But the pain has gotten worse in the three weeks since that doctor's appointment - it hasn't reached anywhere near what I was having when I was diagnosed, this can still be handled by a couple Tylenol or Advil. I think part of why I'm not more upset about this news today is that part of me is glad to know it wasn't just paranoia. Turns out I know my own body a little better than I thought. Some part of me knew something was wrong, that the Herceptin alone wasn't getting the job done. So Sterling & I were both bracing ourselves for even worse news today: that the cancer had spread to my bones, or somewhere else that would equal "no hope". Hope, even a small one, is important, and we still have it.

After dropping Sterling off at home, I had to start sharing the news. I went back to work to tell them & try to tie things up as best I could. I felt so bad - barely back two weeks & now I have to leave again! I was just starting to find my stride again. Sigh. But they were all wonderfully supportive, as they have been throughout this whole ordeal. Tonight I spent on the phone, calling family & friends. Again, I am overwhelmed by everyone's love & support. I am so blessed that way. I tells ya, if love could cure cancer, I would be cured a hundred times over by now. Thank you all.

Chemo Round #10 starts tomorrow. Tomorrow night at this time I will once again have a baby bottle full of poison dangling around my neck. It's discouraging, but what can you do? Soldier on. And hope. Always hope.

Fare Thee Well, 2011!

It's the last day of 2011, a natural time to reflect back on the past year. To say that this past year has not exactly gone the way I planned is something of an understatement. Everyone keeps telling me, "I bet you're glad to see the end of this year!" and "2012 has to be better for you, right?!" Which leads nicely into my sole New Year's Resolution for 2012: to quote the Bee Gees, Stayin' Alive! I want to be around to ring in 2013.

The internets tell me that following a diagnosis of stage IV stomach cancer, on average a person lives 6 months without treatment & a year with. So my six months are up. If I'd lived a hundred years ago, I'd probably be dead or nearly so by now. So everything from here on out is a gift from modern medical science. And I am grateful. But also greedy. I want more, all the life I can get, damnit! But I've also more or less, most days, come to terms with the fact that the length of my life is pretty much out of my control. True, that's the way it is for most of us, but most people have the luxury of ignoring that fact at 33 - I don't.

Talking with my friends one night, I asked them, if you likely could only hope for a few more years, what would you do? We talked about it, and in the end decided, not much differently. Just keep living the life you're living. I think that's a sign you're doing what you should be - because if the prospect of dying soon would make you make drastic changes to how you're living your life, you should probably just make those changes anyways, 'cause you never know.

What this whole stupid fucking cancer experience has driven home to me, is that I love my life. I like vegging out, puttering around in a house I love. Cuddling with the most amazing man in the world on the couch, watching our stories. Harassing my cats. Curling with Team Awesome & hanging out with my friends. Going to work Monday through Friday with great people. Visiting my family. Traveling with my honey, whether it's somewhere exotic or just to the next town. This is what I want, for as long as I can have it.

It's funny, I always thought I had all this wasted potential, that someday if I just got my shit together I'd do something amazing. But maybe it's OK to just enjoy this quiet little life, and never set the world on fire. Maybe just enjoying each day is more than enough.

So goodbye 2011... you may have been the year I was diagnosed with cancer, but you were also the year when I met some amazing doctors & started treatment. When I realized how lucky I am, how many amazing people I have in my life. I'm looking forward to 2012 with quiet hopefulness... who knows, maybe it'll go down in history as the year they cure cancer! Happy New Year, everyone!

Chemotherapy Rounds #5-8: September-December 2011

Chemotherapy Rounds #5-8
Round #5: Wednesday, 28th September 2011 - Tuesday, 25th October 2011
Round #6: Wednesday, 26th October 2011 - Tuesday, 15th November 2011
Round #7: Wednesday, 16th November 2011 - Tuesday, 8th December 2011
Round #8: Wednesday, 9th December 2011 - Tuesday, 28th December 2011

Chemotherapy becomes practically routine. That doesn't mean it sucked less, and each round would have it's own flavour - sometimes I would be expecting it to be really bad & I would feel better than expected, then I would go into the following round feeling more confident & it would wipe me out really bad again. There is also a cumulative fatigue that sets in... because you are allowed just barely enough time to recover from the last round before they hit you again, the fatigue gets slowly worse & worse. The positive news was that when I wasn't wiped out from treatment, I actually felt pretty normal - no more symptoms from the cancer itself, just from the treatment.

Round #5 was delayed a week due to my low neutrophil counts. Neutrophils are a type of white blood cell that fights infections. When you're on chemotherapy, there is a series of blood tests that are done the day before each round, to make sure your body has recovered sufficiently to handle the chemo. One of the tests done is counting your neutrophils. 1.5 and above are considered normal, 1 - 1.4 are considered mild neutropenia (you are mildly more vulnerable to infections), .5 - .9 is moderate, and below .5 & you are severely vulnerable to infections. My blood work on Wednesday, 28th September 2011 before my doctor's appointment was 1.4. The whole neutrophil thing over rounds #5 & #6 really showed how different doctors have different approaches. My pre-chemo doctor's appointment for round #5 was the first with a doctor other than Dr. Katakkar, because he was out of town. I saw the other full-time oncologist, Dr. Bishop, instead. His approach with the lowered neutrophils was to delay chemo until I was above 1.5. This was my first delay in treatment. The initial blood test was done on Wednesday, so Dr. Bishop scheduled me to come back the following Monday morning to be retested, and assuming my level was recovered to 1.5 or above, I would receive chemo right after. As it turned out, the blood test on Monday showed the level hadn't budged, so I was scheduled for the blood test again in 2 days, Wednesday. The third blood test on Wednesday, 5th October 2011, showed my neutrophils finally up to 2.0, so I had chemo #5 starting Thursday, 6th October, one week later than originally scheduled. I seemed to have a somewhat rougher time with chemo #5, I thought probably because the extra week off was an extra week to forget a little how crappy chemo makes me feel.

When I went in for the blood work for round #6 on Wednesday, 26th October, my neutrophil level was 1.3, but Dr. Katakkar was back, and I got to see a different approach. He decided to go ahead with chemo as scheduled, but also prescribed a week of Neupogea shots to boost my bone marrow's production of white blood cells. I had heard about these shots before, from nurses & other cancer patients. It's a very expensive drug ($1,318.38 for 7 little vials of the lowest dose). When we went in for chemo #6 on Thursday, 17th October, the nurse gave Sterling & I a little training session & all the paraphernalia we needed - syringes, disinfectant wipes, a sharps container, and a printout of detailed instructions. She recommended doing the shots right before bed, and taking a couple Tylenol a half-hour before doing the injection. The most common side effect is bone pain, which she described as being similar to growing pains in the bone when you're a teenager. Best to pop a couple Tylenol & then sleep through the worst of it. I was lucky in that I never really noticed any pain/side effects, other than dreading the shots themselves. Sterling gave them to me, starting the day after chemo (Friday) and the last one the following Thursday night. The shots need to go into fat, so we did them in my belly. Sterling was a little nervous, especially that first night, overcoming the natural instinct to not poke a sharp object into someone you love. But he did awesome, and I am so grateful because I don't know if I could have done it to myself. The only other thing of note for chemo #6 was that I got the baby bottle off on my 33rd birthday, 1st November. Happy Birthday to me! It's weird having your birthday after being diagnosed with cancer - you're just so grateful to still be alive, to have made it to see another birthday. And even though treatment has been going extremely well for me, I did think morbid thoughts, like will this be my last birthday? Since I was just finishing chemo on my birthday, I wasn't up for any celebrations on the actual day, but my work had a really nice birthday lunch for me on the following Friday. It was a sweet gesture.

I was glad when the bloodwork for chemo #7 came back & my neutrophils were much higher (2.1) thanks to the shots the previous round, so the shots weren't needed for this round. I had heard from other patients that once they started needing the shots they needed them every round, and I like to avoid as many pokes as possible! Round #7 wiped me out entirely, it was when I really felt the cumulative fatigue catch up with me. The day I got the bottle off (Tuesday, 22nd November) I got winded sitting at the table eating a bowl of soup! It was awful, literally just sitting up lifting a spoon to my mouth repeatedly almost took more than I had. I hadn't been too exhausted to eat since round #2, which was my eating-is-really-hard-no-appetite round. The fatigue did get better, of course, but I was just dreading more chemo. During most rounds, in the worst of it, there would be moments, hours, days when I would think, I can't go through this again. But that feeling was really strong in round #7. I was worried about the upcoming CT scans, that they would say I needed another 3 rounds.

I was scheduled for two CT scans, on Thursday, 1st December & Friday, 2nd December. This was what we had been waiting for since the last scans after round #4. Dr. Katakkar had pretty much refused to talk about a long-term treatment plan until after these scans. The first one was a bit of a gong show. It was the same scan I'd had twice before, of my abdomen. It involved drinking Telabrix contrast on a schedule over the two hours preceding the scan. Then they inject an IV contrast as well. Last time I'd had my port & gotten them to use that instead of putting an IV in my arm. They'd had to get a nurse to come in special to do that, as the CT technicians aren't allowed to use the port, but other than a bit of a wait for the nurse, it went off without a hitch. This time though, something went wrong. The nurse put the needle in my port, everything seemed fine, they got me in the machine & went to inject the contrast - and triggered a high-pressure alarm, shutting my port down. They got me out of the machine, the nurse fiddled, took the needle out, and put in a second one, but no luck. I was a little worried they'd broken my port, to be honest. Finally, they sent me down to the chemotherapy ward to let the more "expert" nurses there have a try. They were extremely busy in chemo that day, but one of the nurses took the time to stick me a third time & managed to get the thing working. We never did figure out what exactly went wrong. Anyways, needle inserted in my chest, we went back to CT to finally get the scan. Friday's scan (which was of my chest, just to be absolutely certain it was clear of cancer) went much smoother - no contrast, either to drink or to inject. Just show up & take another ride through the giant doughnut.

A week later, on Wednesday, 7th December, we had our bloodwork & doctor's appointment for round #8. The nurse had booked it, assuming at the very least whatever the results of the CT scans, I would be kept on Herceptin. It turned out my doctor's appointment was with one of the GPs who also work a few shifts in the Cancer Centre, rather than with Dr. Katakkar. I found out later this was because he was extremely busy with an epidemic of new patients, but at the time it hurt a bit, feeling like I'd been sluffed off. The doctor was very nice, she explained that the CT scans showed stable disease from 3 months ago, and so they were going to try me on just Herceptin (one of the 3 drugs I'd been receiving each round - the one that's targeted to the mutant gene my cancer has). This was very positive news in a lot of ways, but I cried & felt quite conflicted. It's the whole difference between trying for a cure, even if it's enough of a long shot to be considered a miracle, and accepting that I'm going to have live with cancer until treatment stops working & I die. Honestly, the Herceptin treatment was what I'd been expecting, but I just couldn't help hoping for the miracle. I had round #7 of Herceptin on Thursday, 10th December & it was SO much easier than full chemo. In, get one little bag of chemicals dripped into my port over the course of about an hour, leave. Pretty much no side effects, and no dreaded baby bottle. I was able to curl the next night!

For now, life is good. The Herceptin-only treatment is totally manageable to fit into a normal life - a couple hours at the hospital every 3 weeks, no sweat. I'm planning on going back to work in January, when the office reopens after the holiday break. Try to rebuild a life that's been on pause for six months. I'm having a hard time coping mentally with the fact that it's only been my life on pause, and that all around me, life has gone on without me. And with the idea of living with incurable cancer. I try to stay focused on how well everything has gone to this point, but it's hard not to worry about if/when the treatment stops working, the cancer becoming resistant & progresses. The whole "I'm-going-to-kick-cancer's-ass!" attitude that I had at the beginning has been whittled away by the realities of life with cancer. Sterling's approach to this (and life in general) has always been, hope for the best, prepare for the worst. That's what I'm trying to do these days.

Chemotherapy Rounds #2-4: July-September 2011

Chemotherapy Rounds #2-4
Round #2: Wednesday, 27th July 2011 - Tuesday, 16th August 2011
Round #3: Wednesday, 17th August 2011 - Tuesday, 6th September 2011
Round #4: Wednesday, 7th September 2011 - Tuesday, 27th September 2011

Because of the great news that my cancer is HER2+ positive, I am switched to the UGIGAVCFT protocol. Only one of the drugs is the same as the first round, Cisplatin. Each round of chemo now starts with the cup full of anti-nausea meds, followed by a bag of saline, then the only drug that remains the same from last round, the Cisplatin. Next I get the Herceptin, which is the targeted drug for HER2+ cancer, which replaces the Epirubicin. Lastly I am hooked up to the baby bottle full of Fluorcil, which replaces the Capecitabine pills. Instead of 3 weeks worth of pills, I have an infusor (aka a plastic baby bottle of chemo) hooked up to my port for 5 days.

Chemo starts to become routine, my life running on a 3 week cycle. The first Wednesday, kinda day 0 as it's the day before the actual chemo is administered, I have to go to the hospital twice: once first thing in the morning to get my blood drawn, and later in the afternoon after the blood work results are back to see Dr. Katakkar for an exam. This is when he also verifies that my blood work numbers are good enough for chemo the next day (I'm not too immunocompromised or anything) and works out the dosages.

On day 1, Thursday, I go into the hospital for chemo usually first thing in the morning between 8AM-9AM and am usually done early afternoon (1:30PM or so). I leave Thursday with the infusor/baby bottle for 5 days. Usually I feel OK right after chemo, but lose strength & feel worse & worse until the bottle comes off.

The following Tuesday I go in to get the baby bottle removed. This is always a great relief, and usually my weakest point. Lots of times by the time I get home Tuesday I am exhausted by standing to take a shower. But that first shower after getting the baby bottle off is always wonderful even though it's exhausting - after five days not really able to do much other than a sponge bath because of the bottle.

Usually the rest of the week I feel pretty sick & crappy, it takes until the weekend to really start feeling like myself. The days between getting the bottle off and the weekend are usually the roughest mentally... the second round in particular, my mood was the darkest it has ever been. Even when I went through the depths of severe clinical depression, it was never as bad as that second week after round #2 of chemo. I finally understood how people can commit suicide... it was not just awful, but there was a certainty that nothing would ever change, that I would always feel that horrible, even though intellectually I knew that wasn't true, the feeling wasn't listening. Thankfully even though I usually have some dark days after each round of chemo, nothing has ever touched the awfulness after round #2. I think it was a combination of things, one of which was ultimately a highly positive sign: I was able after round #2 to go off the pain medication Dilaudid! Although I think withdrawal contributed to my drastic mood crash, the fact that the chemo had already worked enough to rid me of the terrible pain was a very positive sign. Led my oncologist to say treatment is "definitely working"

The last week/week-and-a-half of the cycle is my "good" week. I feel a little better day by day, and start to feel almost normal... just in time for the next round. This knocking-you-back-down-just-when-you're-feeling-better can become very demoralizing.

On Side Effects I puked once the second round of chemo, but after that we figure out how long to extend the anti-nausea meds. Knock wood, I haven't puked since round #2! This is great, I *hate* puking, and have never done much before in my life (could count the times I'd puked before chemo on my hands with fingers left over). To put it delicately, I've had a lot of digestive problems in my life, but always with the other end. After I went off the pain meds during round #2, the chemo caused diarrhea was no longer balanced by the narcotic caused constipation, and became more of a problem. Fortunately there is an Immodium protocol to follow as well.

I think it was round #3 or #4 where both Sterling & I seemed to have a minor gastrointestinal bug. This was very concerning because of all the "you're immunocompromised it you get an infection you could DIE" warnings. But I guess for a virus there's not much to be done/as concerned about, it's more bacterial infections that you urgently need antibiotics/medical care. We monitor my temperature pretty much daily, as a fever of 38 or over is the trigger to rush to the emergency room. Knock on wood, so far I haven't had that complication!

The side effects of chemo really vary, from person to person, but even from round to round. After round #2 I could barely eat - everything tasted disgusting. I hit my lowest weight ever in adulthood, and went & bought size 2 jeans that fit to prove it! We stocked up on Boost & Ensure & after a lifetime of being aware of a hundred little ways to cut calories, I found myself in the weird bizarro land of constantly trying to sneak extra calories in! Fortunately with subsequent rounds the taste changes haven't been so bad, my weight has stabalized around the normal level for my adulthood.

Another fun side effect of a couple of the anti-nausea meds is that they cause hiccups. I've been lucky that in my case it's been often enough to be annoying & amusing, but not truly disruptive to my life... one of the nurses told me some people have to switch drugs because they can't sleep for the hiccups.

I also get a few days where the bottoms of my feet are very painful. Even walking a short distance during this time is painful. Standing for any length of time is out of the question.

The worse side effect, and the most consistent & pervasive, is the fatigue. I tried to go for short walks around the block whenever I could, but some days it just wasn't possible. Of course, the less you do, the more your muscles waste away, and it's not like I was in peak physical condition before the cancer either. The physical fatigue is hard to live with, but for me the mental fatigue, or "chemo brain", is even worse. There are usually at least a few days each cycle when I can't even really watch TV, everything is beyond me, all I'm really fit to do is stare at the wall & breathe. It's sooo boring. I try to sleep as much as possible through that time, but even though I'm a champion sleeper & can sleep a lot, not even I can sleep all the time. Those days are the most frustrating.

On CAM (Complementary & Alternative Medicine) I went to see my naturopath during this time. I'm very skeptical of all the "miracle cancer cures" & unproven stuff, but my naturopath turned out to be a very reasonable person. He was very upfront that there's not really anything he can do to treat the cancer, that's the oncologist's job. What he could offer was a treatment plan to support my body & help manage some of the side effects of chemo. I had a couple high-dose vitamin C treatments, but have discontinued those as they are expensive & didn't seem to be doing a whole lot. I take the supplements he recommended irregularly, except for the high doses of melatonin he recommended at night - it seems to help me sleep.

On Mood/Attitude/Social Adjustment As I previously mentioned, after the horrible dark time I went through following round #2, I was dreading round #3 with a passion. My family started arranging to have someone visit during the worst part of each chemo round. While I appreciated the support, it was also a little frustrating that they were always here during my worst, I felt like not much of a hostess.

The thing that really affected my mood/attitude was reading & researching, both on the internet & books, reaching out to others with my sort of cancer, and basically discovering just how dire my prognosis really was. I discovered the prognosis was much worse than I was fooling myself into believing. While still on the hospital I had come across the statistic that only 4% of patients diagnosed with stage IV stomach cancer are still alive 5 years after diagnosis. I "met" other people with stage IV stomach cancer through the internet, all of whom had been told that their cancer was not curable, that they would be on chemo for the rest of their lives, until it stopped working & they died. Even though these other patients are doing reasonably well & still alive (they were all diagnosed months/years before me) was encouraging, the idea of having to live with cancer forever is a very different prospect from fighting it, beating it, and getting your life back.

I have always had issues with dying... it's a scary concept, the ultimate unknown. I've really had to face my mortality because of all this. I've broken down & freaked out, and I've had moments when I've been all zen & accepting, and everything in-between.

One thing that has been my saving grace throughout it all has been the amazing love & support I've received. Sterling, my significant other, has been nothing short of awesome, completely supportive. Not perfect, of course, we've had our misunderstandings & differences, but overall he's been a star. My immediate family have all been to visit again. A number of my extended family have taken this opportunity to reconnect & show support. And my friends & coworkers... they've been my lifeline to life outside cancer, making the trek out to visit me twice a week, to keep my spirits up & making me feel like I still have some connection to life. I will never be able to thank them enough.

On Results & Progress After round #4, I had a CT scan to check my progress. The results were very encouraging. The scan found no cancer in my liver, and the metastasis throughout my abdomen was much improved. There was no new ascites (fluid buildup in my abdomen), and even the primary cancer in my stomach looked improved. This was about as positive news as could be hoped for. Dr. Katakkar decided on another three rounds of this chemotherapy, followed by another CT scan, with future treatment to be decided based on the next CT scan.

Chemotherapy Round #1: July 2011

Overlap with my previous post:

Tuesday, 5th July 2011

The chemo I receive is the GIGAVECC protocol. Even though I already have an IV in my left hand, the cancer nurse insists on putting in her own. The good news is, chemo nurses have a reputation as being the very best at putting in IVs, and she gets it first time. First I get a cup full of anti-nausea pills. I am pleasantly surprised to learn that science has come a long way, and rather than puking for a week after chemo, the goal is that we find the right combo of anti-nausea drugs so I never experience nausea at all! My right arm with the new IV is wrapped in an electric blanket, while the nurse uses a huge syringe of bright red liquid to slowly push the first chemo drug Epirubicin. I am asked to tell her immediately if I feel any pain, because if the drug leaks out of my vein it will cause serious burns under my skin. Yikes - I struggle to not develop hypochondriac pain through the power of suggestion. Fortunately, the nurse also warns me that this drug turns your next pee bright red, otherwise my first trip to the bathroom after receiving it would have been very shocking! Next I get a bag of saline, followed by the Cisplatin. The final of the three chemo drugs, Capecitabine, is four pills a day, two with breakfast & two with dinner. I'm given a three week supply in three fancy blister-pack books. I'm to take my first dose with tonight's dinner, and my last with breakfast the morning before my next chemo session.

My first chemo session was also serious information overload. It was explained to me that the BC Cancer Agency has five professions that work as a team: doctors, nurses, pharmacists, nutritionist, and social workers. The last three all stopped by during the chemo to introduce themselves, what their role was in my treatment, and hand me a pile of paper to read. I ended up creating a whole binder I entitled my "Cancer Ass-Kicking Manual" for all this stuff.

Later that evening, after my mom had gone back to my house for the night, I felt so great (aka HIGH) that Sterling said if he hadn't seen the drugs administered for himself, he'd not have believed I'd had chemo.

That night at 7:57PM I updated FaceBook with: "Well, it's stomach cancer, not lymphoma. That's OK, just means a more epic battle & more glorious victory! Had my first chemo treatment this morning (11AM-4PM) and it wasn't too bad! Amazing team of doctors, nurses, social workers, nutritionists, and pharmacists in oncology... information overload, lots of handouts to read as homework. Kicking cancer's ass: I've started!"

Wednesday, 6th July 2011 Discharged from hospital. Before heading home we have to make a stop at London Drugs to fill my anti-nausea prescriptions. Then it's home... which is so clean thanks to my family that it's barely recognizable! I am glad to be back in my own space, and to see my kitties. Home, there really is no place like it.

Thursday, 7th July 2011 Mom's plane leaves at 6AM, so counting back we have to get up VERY early to take her to the airport. Both Mom & Sterling think I should get more sleep & not come to the airport, so I agree that we'll see if I'm up or not when they leave, and we say our goodbyes the night before just in case. But I'm awake, and insist on going to the airport. Later that day, at 12:54PM I update FaceBook: "I'm HOME! Discharged from the hospital yesterday afternoon. Trying to settle back into my space. The chemo seems to be kicking in, very tired today, slept most of the morning." Then at 6:54PM that night "FANTASTIC NEWS! 25% of patients with stomach cancer have a particular mutant gene. If you have it, they can add a targeted gene therapy to your chemo that improves your odds. My oncologist left a message this afternoon: I have it! :D Extra-sweet bonus: I'm a mutant, which means practically an X-Man, right?!"

The Continuation - New Stuff:

The news about the mutant gene had us all crying. It was a very busy phone day, and Sterling & I had been out for a bit & came back to a pile of messages, the very best one was from Dr. Katakkar, letting us know that my cancer was HER2+, which we'd been told about a quarter of stomach cancers are. This means that my cancer was likely to respond to Herceptin, a drug targeted at keeping cells that overproduce HER2 from dividing, originally developed as a treatment for breast cancer, and only recently approved for the treatment of stomach cancer. Dr. Katakkar said that the fact that my cancer was HER2+ meant about a 20% increase in my odds of a positive response to chemotherapy, from around 45% that we'd been quoted in the hospital to 65%. Future rounds of chemotherapy would be a different cocktail of drugs, including Herceptin.

Saturday, 9th July 2011 Once everyone was gone, I got sicker & sicker from the chemo & crashed pretty hard mood-wise. No longer having to be "on" & upbeat for everyone else, the reality of how sick & weak I was set in. Sterling had to supervise me in the shower, and we had to keep a stool in the bathroom because as soon as I got out of the shower I had to sit down. I was taking Dilaudid every 4 hours, because that's what they'd had me on in the hospital, so between that and the pill chemo and all the anti-naseau meds, I was taking upwards of 20 pills a day. The worst was that I had to take the Dilaudid every 4 hours even at night, which involved setting alarm clocks for 2AM and 6AM. One night, the Friday or Saturday, can't remember which, I woke up at 2AM & distinctly remember taking the pain pill laid out right on my bedside table, but when I woke up to take the 6AM dose the 2AM dose was still there, and I was in a *lot* of pain for a while... threw me off for the whole day, really. In the hospital it hadn't been a big deal to be woken up by a nurse, pop a pill, and then go straight back to sleep, but at home with the alarm clock the waking ups were much more disruptive to my sleep. Between the surgery and the cancer I was still only able to sleep like I had before the hospital, on my back and propped up by extra pillows. Sterling and I spent hours on the couches downstairs watching episode after episode of Angel on Netflix. One night we even tried sleeping on the couches down there because I felt more comfortable there then in bed. The whole weekend was pretty miserable in spite of Sterling's pampering and heroic efforts to make me comfortable... at one point just sitting on the couch watching TV I was dizzy like I had the spins from drinking.

Sunday, 10th July 2011 Overly melodramatic Facebook update at 1:22PM: "I keep imagining Mother Gaia's devastated fields of Europe after World War I. That's what chemo feels like, this epic battle taking place inside me."

Monday, 11th July 2011 We had to go to the hospital for the ECG that Dr. Katakkar had wanted me to have before being discharged from the hospital. The technician was nice enough, a bloke who sounded like he was from down under originally, though I didn't ask. He was based out of Calgary, and travels all over northern BC and Alberta doing ECGs. He asked me if I was nervous, because my heartbeat was very fast. I don't think I was really, but I was really worn out from the crappy weekend and side effects of the chemo. It would later turn out that because of my super-fast heartbeat the test results would come back slightly abnormal, preventing Dr. Katakkar from keeping me on the Epirubicin when I was switched to Herceptin, the drug that targets the mutant HER2+ gene. Epirubicin is not normally combined with Herceptin, because they both can cause heart damage, but I think Dr. Katakkar was considering this extremely aggressive approach because of my youth & the fact that in his clinical experience, the heart damage would be reversible. But because of the abnormal heart rate, my next chemo would be the standard Herceptin cocktail.

After the ECG, we stopped by the cancer centre, because I'd had such a hard time with the side effects over the weekend. When they asked me how I was doing, I broke down in tears. The nurses were wonderful, got me in to see a doctor, who prescribed a 12 hour version of my pain pills & an IV bag of saline to help me rehydrate from the chemo. I ended up in on one of the chemo recliners with a heated blanket (most missed thing about being in the hospital, hot blankets whenever I wanted one). Getting a new IV was no fun (curse my itty bitty hidey veins) but I did leave feeling SO much better after the fluids.

The nurse also removed the 8 staples (4 per incision) from my surgery. The lower incision ones came out easily, but a couple of the ones in my belly button incision were deeply embedded in the scab, which made pulling them out pretty painful.

Facebook update at 10:32AM July 12th: "Stopped in at the cancer centre after echocardiogram yesterday, since the weekend was very hard (felt like I'd aged 50 years). Everyone there is SO AMAZING, they gave me IV fluids, took out my laparoscopy staples, answered my questions & generally gave me lots of TLC & reassurance. One of the nurse's said, come in any time, you belong to us now. It is so great we have this resource right here in PG! I'm so lucky."

Then at 10:37AM: "I'm feeling so much better today!!! Doctor's switched around my pain meds a little, so I was able to sleep through the night, rather than wake up every 4 hours. I probably got a solid 9 hours last night, for the first time since before I went into the hospital. Amazing what a difference that can make!"

Friday, 15th July 2011

Sterling took me to the cancer ward where I was checked in for day surgery, to get a port implanted in my chest to make chemo much easier. We were delayed a bit because of an emergency surgery, when it was finally time Sterling waited down in the cancer ward while they took me upstairs. Then we were delayed again when the nurse discovered that they had to send to stores for the port device! (Normally I guess they have a few on hand in surgery, but they had done a lot of these implants lately.) It was the wonderful Dr. Wankling who performed the operation, the same surgeon who had done the exploratory surgery that found my cancer. It was a bit disconcerting being awake for this one, but I couldn't actually see anything they were doing... there was a blanket over me, with just the surgery site, my right chest & neck, exposed. I joked after that I was just hiding under the blanket till it was over. I chatted with the doctor & nurses while they were doing the surgery... I remember them saying, now we're going to make a pocket (in my chest for the port) which still sounds kinda creepy. After it was over, the nurse handed me a little booklet which included a card I had to present to a medical professional before they could use my port, and also the serial number of the port. My comment? "Oh good, so if I'm murdered they can use this to identify my body!" I got some *very* weird looks from the nurses! "Like on CSI?" And then one of them said, oh, ok, yes I've seen that, but the others still looked very weirded out that that was my first thought.

Facebook at 8:36PM: "Got my PowerPort VAD (Venous Access Device) surgically implanted today by the always wonderful Dr. Gilbert Wankling. My neck is really sore now that the freezing is coming out, but this is going to save me from a lot of IVs & needle sticks, so I'm sure it's worth it!"

at 9:18PM: "I should add, this is completely under my skin... once everything heals up and the bandages/staples are gone, I'll just have a quarter-sized raised bump on the right of my chest.

I have to say, I was quite nervous about getting the port, but it has been awesome. Instead of the tedious & painful process of getting blood tests and then an IV every chemo, now it is just a small prick breaking the skin over the port, and they are in. I found out during this trip to the hospital that my surgeon Dr. Wankling is also a cancer survivor, and went through chemo about 10 years ago, and he said when he was putting in the device that he wished they'd had them when he did chemo, as he burnt out all the veins in his arms.

Sunday, 17th July 2011 My best friend of many years came through town & stopped by for a visit. It was great to reconnect with her; we've grown apart the last few years since she had kids, but there is nothing like cancer to bring people back into your life. Her husband & Sterling took the three kids to McDonald's so we could visit (and also because kids are little germ factories that immuno-compromised-from-chemo me was supposed to avoid). Facebook update at 1:20PM: "Just had an awesome visit with Amy (and said hi/bye to [her husband] Chris) - so good to see you guys!!!"

Monday, 18th July 2011 My friends & coworkers are awesome... they all wanted to know when they could come by & visit me to keep my spirits up. I finally ended up scheduling regular "visiting hours" of Monday & Friday night after work. This was the first one, and we decided to celebrate by also having a movie night. Facebook update at 10:11PM: Hosted a movie night tonight; lots of fun! Watched A Dog's Breakfast with Krista, Ben, Danuta, Mandy, Apa, and Sue's other-half-who-doesn't-do-FaceBook [Nick]. :)

Thursday, 21st July 2011 FaceBook update at 3:46PM: "Had the furnace & ducts cleaned today - sticker on the furnace says for the first time since 1995! Oops! Guys from Super-Vac was great; he was very surprised by our cat Bob though, as nearly all cats HATE all the noise (our poor other cat Bella freaked out & most of her usual safe places weren't available) but Bob actually followed the cleaner around supervising, noise didn't bother him at all!"

And at 8:15PM: "My painting arrived today! I'm so excited, I wrote a blog post about it.

Wednesday, 27th July 2011 Facebook update at 9:57AM: "Well, this is unexpected! CGA marks were released today for the exam I wrote June 10 (when I was in a lot of pain & still weeks away from the cancer diagnosis) - I passed! 8D"

and at 7:27PM: "Dear Universe, in the month since my diagnosis with stage IV cancer, my immediate family has experienced another serious health scare & two relationship breakups. My boyfriend Sterling has had his step-grandfather & his uncle pass away. Please, can we be done with the bad news already?!"

Can't Remember When Exactly

But I know it was before chemo round #2, and sometime after getting my port installed. The two times I'd puked after the chemo, it seemed to be as much from the iron pills I was taking to correct the cancer-related anemia as from the chemo. So instead of the pills they decided to give me an iron infusion. It was also a good test run for my new port. The iron infusion basically took all day, as they have to infuse it slowly. No real side effect other than a metal taste. The real comedy was before they did it, they took the staples out of my chest from the port surgery. The second staple the nurse went to take out someone bent the wrong way, instead of opening it closed tighter. It was incredibly painful & took quite a while to correct. I kept looking at it which didn't help, so I tried looking at Sterling's face, but that wasn't much help either... he was holding my hand, leaned forward staring at the nurse wrestling with the staple with a look of horrified fascination, like watching a horror movie.