doctoral candidate in rhetoric and scientific and technical communication
cancer
chemo brain
0I’m on vacation this week. It’s spring break at school so I took the week off from work, as well. That means that I don’t get on my computer as much. Mostly because I want to be doing things other than what I do day in and day out for work…computers.
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I have a classmate who is a few years older than I am. We are, easily, the two oldest people in my linguistics class. She is an amazing woman who has a lot of knowledge that she doesn’t really share.
Why doesn’t she? She has what is called “chemo-brain”. She was diagnosed with breast cancer a few years ago and underwent chemo. She also went through trials to determine what effects chemo has on the brain and body (besides its obvious effects on cancer).
Chemotherapy is poison. It kills cancerous cells but it also kills other cells that we need. This study determined that a loss of memory and simple motor functions occurs when a patient undergoes a series of chemo.
My classmate has told me that she has a lot to contribute but by the time it gets from her brain to her mouth, we’ve moved on. She also says that sometimes the words don’t come out right. She’s thinking about what needs to be said but that isn’t what comes out of her mouth.
It has affected her self-esteem. She told me that before the chemo, she could do anything. Her papers were clear and well-written. She was able to contribute to the classroom discussions.
She said that it’s even hard to get dressed sometimes. She’s in the bedroom getting ready and forgets what she was going to do.
Chemo-brain.
It hurts my heart to even think about this. People are dealing with this horrendous disease and then the one cure that they count on immobilizes parts of their lives.
On one hand, you’re going to live. On the other, you’re losing a basic part of yourself.
I can’t even begin to imagine what that is like.
one final entry
0I spoke, last time, of K. in the hospital. She’s out. She’s had surgery. She begins chemo again next week. She had me feel her bald head the other day. She was proud because she had soft stubble growing. Not much, mind you…but enough to make her proud.
She has a smile that will light up a room. It’s infectious. I’ve never been so relieved to see a person in my life. What a gift she is to us…and each one of us knows it. We went running to her desk to see her when she came for a visit. Hugs, hands touching, reaching out to feel her…smiles and laughter filling the room.
I told her I was going to shave my head one more time, this weekend. I want to make sure it’s even before I let it grow out. It’s cold. I can’t stay warm. The cold invades my body even when I’m covered with blankets, wearing shirts, sweatshirts, and when the heater is on. I can’t get warm. Is this what it’s like?
I start the growth process.
I know I said I’d stick with her. But I don’t feel bad about this. This is the right thing to do. She’s ready to put it behind her.
Her cancer has spread. It’s now in her lymph nodes. We mourn this.
But she smiles. She laughs. She is living life and refusing to let this disease take her over. And because of this, our mourning turns to celebration. We rejoice in the moments we have with her. We cherish every second.
We are blessed.
the littlest things…
012 years ago
Glendronach made me think of something today. He had lunch with a friend who has had severe cancer and the treatments to go along with it. He had trouble talking to her about it.
I haven’t share the ongoing trials of our department lately because I wasn’t sure how much it mattered. I find, though, that it does.
Is my head still bald? smiling softly Yeah…it is. And it will remain so for a while.
K. and I’ve been talking about her treatment. We share quiet moments in the server room, the workroom, or at my desk and we talk about the cancer and her treatment. These are special moments for me.
She stopped me one day in the workroom and told me that I’d never know how much shaving my head meant to her. That it helped her get through days that were hard. She knew she had friends who cared every time she walked by my office. And that helped her get through each chemo session.
Her lump has decreased in size. They may be able to go with a lumpectomy instead of a mastectomy. That is the best news we could hope for. She will find out more within the next week.
Today we talked again. She begins treatment 4 in about 30 minutes and after this one, they will gauge if the surgery will be done or if they will go on with chemo. We’re all hoping for chemo.
When will we let our hair grow out? When K. is done with chemo…which could be October or November. We told her we were in it with her for the long-haul. The more support she has, the better spirits. And she deserves it. She’s a beautiful woman.
I’m proud to know her.
a piece of my week
0I’m so weird these days. I know part of it is because I’m tired. I know that part of it is because I’m not used to dealing with such illnesses and sometimes I don’t know what to say or what to do. I don’t want to say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing to hurt someone I care about. I want to do it right. There’s too much pain going on in this world as it is. I wanted to share something with you.
On Wednesday morning, I walked down to the ground floor before leaving for a meeting. I was talking to the building receptionist (a lovely lady that I really like) and someone turned to look at me. I couldn’t remember her name but she looked familiar.
She said that she recognized my voice. She said, “branwyn?”
I, luckily, remembered her name right then. “Skye!”
She looks at me more closely. She said, “It is you, right?”
I laughed and nodded. And she asked, “Are you sick?”
Tears lept to my eyes. It hurt. I’m not sick but I know, because of my long weekend, that I looked sick. I had sucken eyes, pale face, bald head.
“No, no…I’m not sick.” I explained why my head was shaved…why I looked like the walking dead.
This all affected me deeply. And the next day, I found out K. was in the hospital and that I would be going to see her. All I could think was that I hope she gets better soon so neither of us has to look sick anymore. So that we can both grow back our hair and live life to its fullest. I can. But I won’t until she can with me.
I went to her partner today. I told her that if my shaved head became a constant reminder to them, I would grow my hair back. I didn’t want to do anything to hurt them further. I also told her that we, as a department, were really glad that K. has her. We were glad that she had someone to love her and care for her. And then I started to tear up…and she, H., said…”Please don’t. I’ll cry if you do.” I didn’t. She hugged me…this woman who is like a rock. And she told me that she appreciated everything and thanked me for coming to her.
Why am I telling you this? So you’ll understand what frame of mind I’m in. I’m just sad. Just sad.
Life is good for me right now. I have nothing to complain about. I wish K. had the same.
reflections
0I can’t help but touch it. It calls out to me, beckoning me to just stroke it and feel it. The soft fur only millimeters long is like the felt we used in arts & crafts as kids…or like a soft velvet…or like the suede skirt I have hanging in my closet. And like those, it is something I want to touch. I want to feel the sensation beneath my fingertips.
Everything is different. I feel different. I am looked at differently. All because of this. I was stopped twice yesterday and asked if I was the woman in the newspaper…was I the one who supported her co-worker or was I that co-worker who was supported? And how wonderful that was. I was the woman in the newspaper…taking the picture of her friend with cancer. I was embarrassed that people noticed me. They had never noticed me before. What was the difference? Had I changed?
I’m overwhelmed by this. People want to touch me. They want to feel a part of this thing. And they are. Every word, every touch, every thought…they become a part of it. And it moves me…like nothing else ever has. I’ve become a part of something so absolutely beautiful and touching that I don’t even have the right words for it.
This is day 2 of my baldness. I would have never thought it would have had such an impact on me. But it has. I think of K. minutely. How is she doing? How is this affecting her?
I can’t wait to get back to work tomorrow to ask…to hear everyone’s experiences…to understand that this is what life is about…this sharing…this comraderie.
shaving!?! EEK!
0laughing softly This is not what you think…I’m sure. Tomorrow I’m shaving my head. Those guineverian locks, as Maenad used to call them. The strawberry blonde hair will be a memory.
A woman in my department was recently diagnosed with a very severe form of breast cancer. She is having radical chemo and was told that her hair would definitely fall out. To be graceful, she decided to shave her head.
We are a close knit family in this department. We have to be…we’re the computer/phone department of the whole county (largest land wise in the US) and put in many hours every week together. We have to like one another…we spend more time with each other than with family and friends.
So, we (the other members of the department) decided to shave our heads with her, in support of her. When we told her, the look in her eyes told us all we needed to know. It was a moving moment…one that I will never forget. Then she quickly covered and said that we didn’t need to shave our heads. But our minds were made up.
The tv station has been called. The newspaper has been alerted. Tomorrow at 5 p.m. in the parking lot outside this building, we will all be shaving our heads in support of our friend. Our treasured friend.
Am I nervous? You betcha. Am I worried about sunburn. I’m a redhead…what do you think? Am I worried about the looks, the stares, the comments. Not in a million years. This is something so special to me.
So, please, tomorrow at 5 p.m. PDT, please think of my friend. She is a wonderful and beautiful person.