Chemo was fun

No I am not crazy. Chemo was fun today, mostly because of the wonderful nursing staff.

We talked about all sorts of things: food, family, life experience. We sang and danced a bit. There was even a moment of improv.

And because of the Cart-a-port NO NEEDLES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Rick was there and they included him in English, although the rest of us jabbered in French.

The machine in the photo looks simple, but it isn't. It can count the drops of poison heading into my system to destroy and lurking cancer cell. It gives information to the nurses.

We found several photos to post in our With Flying Colours Facebook group. This week it is numbers and any color. 

M-O took a couple of photos of us as well.

Ten more or thirty hours to go. In between there's other appointments, but the chemo I dreaded is 1000x better than I had imagined.

Thank you HUG.
 

I hate my veins

My veins are small and they tend to hide when approached by a needle.

Thus when they installed the port-a-cath in my chest I still ended up being stuck five time: twice to put in the antibiotics and three times to find a vein that would co-operate for the device

In the operating room, the surgeon took one look at my veins and called her boss, the big boss. 

It took twice as long and three tries, but finally it worked. 

My breast cancer team had warned me the surgeons weren't as warm and fuzzy as they were ( a reputation of surgeons that my Syrian doctor friend agrees in principle.)  

I like to be original and creative but not with my veins.

I will admit I was scared more because of my veins and needles than anything else. They wanted me at the hospital at 7 am for a 12:45 procedure. Settled in bed with a good book and a loving husband by my side helped as much as it could be helped, but still my blood pressure shot up.

On the positive side it seems the operating staff wanted to practice their English. What we ended up, which is often the case in Geneva is Franglais, or something repeated twice, once in each language. 

No matter the hard part now that it is over. I now will have the chemo inserted directly into the port-a-cath instead of trying to set records of the number of times it takes to get a vein. With ten sessions left to go, this is wonderful

No more human pin cushion. I'm turning in my tomato.

Unhappy puppy

I am one unhappy puppy.

It is one thing to get up early to make an 8:00 blood test. 

It is another to get a call asking me to come back a second time, because they had done the wrong test.

At least both times we missed the traffic. We live about 20 minutes away or an hour if it is rush hour.

The one good thing was that they were able to hit the vein the first time. On the trip back into the city I was dreading it because of the times it took four or five times. This was not any nurse's fault. It is my veins.

However, I do not want to delay the implant of the port-a-cath nor my next chemo. The faster I can go thru the program the faster I can get on with my normal life.

Rick was wonderful as usual, a calming influence. He never negates my feelings and at the same time puts them in perspective.

I am not a refugee. I am not like some of my friends in Damascus living under bombings. Despite the mix up, the care is wonderful and it will not bankrupt me thanks to the Swiss insurance system.

Now, if they would only call and tell me what time Monday, I will probably start wagging my tail

Frustration

This has been the most frustrating day since the doctor in Argelès discovered I had lumps and needed a biopsy.

1. Plans were for a rainy day, work on the memoir I'm editing, stay indoors, enjoy looking at the rain and drinking lots of tea.

Reality. At 9:30 when I'm still in my PJs, the phone rang. The hospital wanted to know why I missed my 8:30 appointment.

The answer was simple. No one told me I had the appointment. It wasn't on any of my date sheets.

I was given a new rendez-vous at 11:30 but not what day. The call was extra frustrating because the person on the phone spoke fast and seemed to resent when I asked her to repeat something or slow down.

Mad rush trying to figure out what to do and how. The department that called didn't pick up the phone.

It did not help in searching for information my normally neat room became a disaster area. I don't do well when things aren't in their place.

Finally, I called my nurses team who were able to give me information.

2. I misplaced my pocketbook in the confusion. For one horrible moment I thought maybe it had been packed in the luggage of our two departing guests, but Rick found it before they had to unpack,
a small blessing.


The consultation was to explain what would be done on Monday when they insert the port-a-cath in my chest so they won't have to attack my veins and leave me feeling like a human pin cushion.

3. Unlike at La Maternité where everyone is helpful, the receptionist was rather nasty and I had to repeat calmly was I needed. She finally agreed to search for the doctor, who was not nasty and understood when I explained I couldn't keep an appointment that I didn't know existed.

4.  My new wig feels terrible. It itches. I finally put the one on that I had bought three years ago that I had planned to wear until my hair grew from the Oreal 66.6 to  its natural color whatever that might be. I gave up early on and the wig stayed in my closet although Rick has been playing games with it over the last few days. The old one feels fine.

We need to go back to Michel (wig maker) tomorrow when I have yet another trip to the hospital to take blood to see what can be done about the wig.

5. Since I had skipped breakfast in the rush and the cafeteria at HUG has a terrible selection of foods we decided to have a date, a nice lunch and instead of the usual restaurants we chose Port Gitane in Versoix to turn the day into something pleasant.

I used to eat there with my boss. Even in the rain the view of  the lake was beautiful. Pricey but my fish and Rick's chicken were good.

As we sat at the table, I realised that my temporary prosthesis had moved. I had my left breast looking good under my sweater, but my right had moved to the middle of my chest and up to my throat.

I excused myself to make the necessary adjustments.

Now that wasn't frustrating but more funny. Once  get my permanent prosthesis this won't happen.

I need to remind myself how lucky I am to be able to have this treatment to prevent any recurrence of the cancer, that no one is dropping a bomb on me, that I am not being herded into a camp as a refugee etc., etc., etc. I have a wonderful housemate and husband who rally around me.

And if I think about it a roaming boob is much better than banging my head against anything.

Calmness has replaced frustration.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

My hair was beginning to fall out and my scalp was all tingly. I decided not to wait and headed for the wig store. Part of it, I am taking control. I will not be a victim, but a fighter against any cancer cell lurking in my body.

Michel is a specialist in medical wigs. The Swiss government pays for the wig as part of their social security program.

We settled on one very close to my own hair. 

"Is it real hair?" Rick asked.

"Vegetal," Michel said. "Bamboo." However the hair is better and more manageable than my own. Good thing, It will be with me for quite a while.

"I can turn the chair so you don't have to see your head being shaved," he said.

I wanted to look and I didn't want to look. Heck, if I can stand five attempts to find a vein, I can watch the loss of my hair. It became a more feminine version of my father's face with his bald head looking back at me.

We'd seen the Marie Antoinette wig in the window. I wanted to take a picture. When I asked Michel, he said, "You can try it on," he said.

Rick and I had joked about selecting that wig. However, between the 2000 CHF price tag which is more than the system will pay for, the weight and the warmth, I decided to be more conventional.

But I can imagine grocery shopping at Migros or Manor with the wig, jeans and a sweatshirt.

My husband did a dueling blog on today https://snt150.mail.live.com/?tid=cmpFhVK7dc5RGVAGw75af68w2&fid=flinbox.

Life editing

'I guess this is one of these times when you have to go through what I like to call "life editing": stripping it down to the very essential with resting being a big chunk of the essential.'

These words of wisdom came from my French daughter, an exceptional young woman of no blood relation but four decades of caring make her a family member of choice, whom I don't just love but respect. What a pleasure it was watching her survive the various struggles of growing up into the talented and fine human being she is.

She was referring not just to my cancer but to her own changed life. With two small boys and and her husband's work schedules her life has changed focus on the essentials.

Likewise with my cancer. I should have been on a plane to Edinburgh for a three-week stay today. Instead I've made lamb stew, the first major cooking I've done since my first chemo and will take a walk later. Cutting the veggies, searing the meat had its own pleasures and the walks, which my husband insists on I used to call forced marches. Now I see them as treks of discovery.

Somethings like seeing an opera, a boat trip, evenings with friends all depend on doctor's appointments and energy levels. I've never edited my social life like this.

But it is all right. Each day brings me its own joyous moments... sometimes because of the editing I am even more aware of them and savor them in a way I didn't before.

She added, 'All in all, we are very busy and this is a period with little time outside work and family.'

 

I could say 'All in all, we are controlled by doctor's appointments limiting other options.'

 

When her boys are older and a sleepless night is because one of the boys is out with the car, when my treatments are finished there will be time to do other things. We hopefully will look back on all the good moments we've had during our period of life editing.

 

 

Forced march turnabout

Rick insists I walk each day.

We've seen the difference in the brain colors before and after walking.

I really don't mind because I love exploring the area but we still refer to them as forced marches. And there are the days, when I am really tired, my attitude registers on the bottom of the enthusiasm scale, although once I'm out, it raises fast.

We normally go at the end of the day, but this morning I got him out of bed. It was a perfect late summer day with a feel of autumn.

Wandering behind the upper village the views of the Alps, a few errant sunflowers that escaped the harvest and grapes waiting for the harvest created a wonderful morning of chatting, taking photos and celebrating just being together.

We chatted with a man who had a beautiful German Shepherd, smiled at joggers, stopped at the bakery on the way home for a loaf of fresh baked bread that is wonderful with honey.

Good thing we did it in the morning. It is now 17:21 and raining.