Keeping you up to date
Philosophy You know its funny this preparing to die thing. It feels a lot like normal life. Each day is much like it was in the past. There are some very notable differences. I work less. I spend more time clearing up and clearing out my life – decluttering and simplifying things as much as
Well its a long time between blog posts. Cancer update: The chemotherapy protocol I was on initially – eribulin + Keytruda (this is the really expensive immunotherapy one we/you are funding), did not work. I could feel my lymph nodes enlarging, and just prior to finishing prescribed course of treatment (8 x 3 week rounds
This week marked the end of my third round of chemotherapy, and also my third dose of Keytruda (“pembro “).
There isn’t a great deal to report medically. I am tracking ok. Few side effects, no nasty autoimmune effects from the Keytruda – taking the brakes off my immune system can lead to my immune system attacking just about anywhere.
The first time I had chemotherapy, I cried. I had to sign a consent form that I understood just what was going to happen to me. Of course, I couldn’t read it. Most of that day was a blur, and my eyes were tightly closed. But the finality of consenting to literally poison being pumped
The response to the fundraiser has been amazing. It has been very overwhelming, and at times difficult to confront the reality of what is happening.
We had decided
Chemotherapy is over. Officially since mid February. This means I am seven weeks post chemo. My hair is growing back. First my legs have tiny blonde hairs of only a few millimeters. I notice it here first around the tenth of March. I luxuriate in feeling for stubble and hold them up against the light
I feel like I’m in a cage. A cage with no key. There is no escape. I will always feel the bars. My sister visited. She is perhaps the only one who acknowledges that the odds aren’t good. Everyone else is buoyed with optimism. “You will beat it”, “The odds aren’t good” I say. “I’m
My hair is falling out. In drifts and tangles it comes away. Settling on my pillow, in my hair brush, on my collar, like autumn leaves. My head still has hair but it is frizzy and lifeless. The exodus cannot end well. Despite the dreaded cold cap, I am now succumbing. I have finished 12
The surgeon is patient and kind. “We’ll sort out your breast cancer” he says. I am a bit perplexed thinking “but I don’t have breast cancer”. At least I didn’t this morning. We don’t have the cytology results, so I still cling to hope that all the Doctors so far are wrong. Let’s not forget
Two years ago exactly I was swollen and tired. Each night I’d arrange pillows around my body, huge and expectant with my long wished for second child. My body was ungainly. I was exhausted and grumpy. I was 20 kg heavier than now. And yet, I was so anxiously waiting for my new baby. I
