Chemo – Betches Guide to Cancer

What doesn’t grow back.

Your hair will grow back. What doesn’t grow back readily, are the brain cells that were killed by dense-dose chemo and the feeling of belonging in a cancer-community ravaged by constant death. What doesn’t grow back right away, is self-assurance in a world governed by the appearance of our physical assets. But what I have learned is that those things, although intrinsic to our nature, need watering to propagate.

Cancerous weeds that poisoned our bodies were ripped out and we’re left as shells, vacant in the stale soil remains that cultivate little growth apart from fear and apprehension. Slowly as sun and rain returns in waves, we toil in our new dusty surroundings and plant seeds of love and evolution. We stare longingly at the vast green meadows in the distance, sometimes neglecting our own efforts to rebuild the broken land we stand on.

Our recovery comes in seasons, just like the Earth. Sometimes I’m Spring; energized by the sound of birds and the flowers blooming around me. Sometimes I’m Winter; exhausted from the banal platitudes of adult life, so I let my flowers rot back into the Earth under the heaviness of cold wet snow. Cyclical like the seasons.

But each Spring plants more drops of hope into the soil that eventually grow into trees that withstand the winters and tower over the snow. Time and careful upkeep, brings unflinching boldness and beauty to a once-broken ground.

So be gentle with us, we’re relearning to live after we’ve been told we may die.

I often neglect my springtime because I am too busy looking across the pasture, coveting an oasis in the distance. It disorients me and I can’t see that I’ve ignored my own pasture in the peripheral. So I struggle to keep up. Staying focused is one of the most difficult things I’ve struggled with after cancer.

I’ve written things like:

“We are taught to drive a car by looking ahead of us in our own lane. If you are constantly staring to your right and left at the nicer cars going faster than you, you’ll inevitably crash.”

And I can’t follow my own advice. I crash, all the time. I set goals for myself, I’m not very good at keeping them. Distractions are my worst enemy, and I often consider it failure. But this morning—as if struck by a lightning bolt from God—I realized that I’m not failing. I can’t keep punishing myself. It’s a cycle of growth; embryonic at times, but still progress. Failure comes in all forms; forward movement, however slow it may be, is not failure. I may be wading in the water, but my head is still above it.

I have an overly sensitive spirit, and I live in an overstimulated world. How do I focus when there’s so much distraction? Often times, I have days where I can’t do anything. I wake up, drink coffee, and I am sucked into a vacuum of social media and internet nonsense. My optimism is shrouded in the daily humdrum of just being alive. I don’t possess a fear of failure, or a fear of death. Perhaps my fear is of life. Of living a life so extraordinary and then having it taken away in death. Sometimes I think we’re all waiting to die, wherein lies an underlying lack of motivation for great success.

In the past, two things that I’ve used to help keep me moving (slowly) forward are self-love, and unwavering optimism. I’ve always been an overly optimistic person, oftentimes and recently using it as a crutch that “everything will be ok” regardless if I do anything about it. But I bore myself, because my past few blogs have been written on precisely the same struggle that I have now. I’ve let my optimism bankrupt me, like I’m buying too many lottery tickets because I just KNOW that someday I’ll win.

I need to shift my blind enthusiasm and self-love towards coveting a fear of failure and having self-motivation. Enthusiasm is only a means to achieve real life success, it’s not successful in itself.

I’ve measured my success in my survival for so long, but it’s time to go beyond surviving and start living. Living, is being responsible. It’s being productive and actively working to change your life and achieve goals. It’s having fun, when it’s felt rewarded. It’s waking up early and setting goals in the magical, energetic light of morning. It’s not being blissfully happy and waiting around for someone to contact me with a million dollars advance to write a book.

Money doesn’t motivate me, helping people motivates me. So I’m going to use that, YOU, as my motivation going forward. If I let my friends, clients, and readers down, then I’ve let myself down. I’m not going to be a stay-at-home girlfriend, I’m going to be the bread-winner. I am done struggling, I am done being lazy. This is my time to create the oasis I’ve always been admiring from afar. I will be consistent. I will get organized. I will surround myself with people who hold the same goals and positivity as myself. I can fucking do this, I beat cancer.

And when I’m inevitably fading into the winter, I’ll remind myself to come back and read this and remember where my motivation lies. I won’t punish myself and wither beneath the weight of a setback, I’ll remind myself that I am allowed to experience the cold sometimes because it reminds me of how much more I enjoy warm weather.

“Although you feel small and helpless now, she is evidence that miracles are being planted in the ashes that surround you, and they will grow into oak trees with roots so deep they do not fear the changing seasons.”

I wrote that…about one year ago. Making me realize that nobody else can truly motivate me like myself. <3

To the girl on the left…

Two years apart.

Same Lululemon hoodie; different body and soul occupying it.

I’m not here to bullshit with all the champions who are going through chemo right now and tell you “everything will be ok!” because we all know that’s not always true. And in those daunting hours, days, months of treatment we often can’t see the light because we’re literally confined indoors to our homes and hospitals under the stale fluorescence of fake lighting and saccharin enthusiasm.

I found my light by observing others who had walked the path before me. They have hair! They are going on vacations! They have cleavage! I was bald and puffy. I felt left behind and sorry for myself. But I saw my future in the other cancer survivors who were years ahead of me in remission. I realized that my new normal—crushing exhaustion as I would draw on my eyebrows every morning and glue on fake eyelashes just so I could look halfway decent and avoid sneers and stares if I even dared to venture into the outside world–would not be my forever normal.

So, to the girl on the left, I’d like you to meet the girl on the right. She is one of those future cancer survivors that you’re going to enviously admire. Let her be a testimony to all of the doubts and insecurities you’re feeling right now. Let her show you how life can be normal again. Although you feel small and helpless now, she is evidence that miracles are being planted in the ashes that surround you, and they will grow into oak trees with roots so deep they do not fear the changing seasons.

She is proof that –although you cannot see the plan God has for you—you are right on track.

To the girl on the left: I know you nearly had a panic attack before you posted that picture of yourself bald on social media. You were flustered and frightened by what the response would be because you cared what other people thought. And you will be criticized but not in a way you are prepared for. You will be judged for wearing wigs to “hide” your cancer. You will be condemned for saying the word “fuck” in your blog. You will be chastised for posting photos of your mastectomy scar and surgeries. You will get fusilladed by a sea of eye-rolls as you perpetually forget important dates and can’t even recall what you said in a conversation two hours ago.

The girl on the right is proof that as time passes and people pass judgement, you’ll learn to care a little less about those things. She is proof that you can and should do whatever the hell makes you happy because by the time you’ve caught up to the girl on the right, you’ll have earned every ounce of that happiness.

She is proof that one day you’ll become a stranger in the oncology department which now seems so familiar and where everybody knows your name. She is proof that there will be weeks that go by before the word “cancer” is spoken. And when it is, that word will slip from your mouth like a vase full of flowers tumbling to their demise while you flinch at the piercing explosion on the cold marble floor. It will rattle you. But also remember that the girl on the right is a fucking badass so she asks someone to grab a broom and everybody laughs because she says “I hated that ugly vase anyways.”

She is proof that as your life changes, you will learn more about yourself than you could ever imagine.

She is proof that you are not alone in your fight. Stay strong, whatever you’re going through now is just the test before you learn the lesson.

Fear and Loathing in Allergy Season

The incorrigible villain known as pollen is once again plundering my lungs of breath, scorching my throat, and welcoming me into its lukewarm arms with dual ear infections. Post-cancer, I’ve had a difficult time finding antibiotics and medicines that respond to my body in a satisfactory way. My immune system is now an extremely callous, obstinate version of what it used to be. In some ways this is good—I generally am sick less often—but when germs and infection do invade, they tend to have a competitive advantage. Chemo changes the body considerably; I never used to have any allergies and now I’m allergic to numerous things including pollen and most of the human race. Cancer hollowed out my old body and refilled it with new contents.

Human nature encourages us to act bitter to these misgivings in life, but what if we decided to embrace the terrible things that have happened to us? Is it wrong to celebrate my sickness as I sit here freezing in two sweatshirts with tissues and various bottles of antibiotics and pills in front of me? I rejoice in these reminders that my health is not guaranteed, because it means I’m alive. Cancer taught me to appreciate the best and the worst of life; the worst sometimes being the more valuable experience.

After cancer, one battle ends and a new war starts. We’ve been dragged and burned through a nuclear war zone and then thrown back onto our trembling legs and told to run back into the world’s unfamiliar embrace. We stumble to recognize this new world we live in, where fear and worry are trivial words for which we no longer recognize their express meaning because they are now intrinsic to our character. We are made of fear, but we’ve internalized it so we can control its power within our conscious and rearrange where it dwells. We conquer fear and vanquish it to the attic in our minds until a small beam of sunlight illuminates its silhouette and exposes the curled up corners of a chilling satisfied smile veiled in the shadows. But we grin back, because when you’ve seen that menacing face, you’re no longer controlled by it. We control the beast. It no longer dictates us; we are free because death does not frighten us.

New beasts may inhabit the darkness: anxiety, depression, hopelessness; but their power is limited to the shackles we place on them. They are defeated in the acknowledgement of them and the ability to govern their size and influence. The moment you stop fearing death is when you can live unadulterated in your lust for life and be present to every raw emotion that unearths from the shadows.

That is where you find the confidence to finally write your own destiny.

This is where you learn to embrace your new post-cancer body and unlock the healing power contained within your mind. It’s how you learn to be the most enthusiastic girl in the world with a recurrent double ear infection and a throat that feels like I’ve swallowed a fucking razorblade.

So feed the beasts you want to grow: confidence, happiness, appreciation, love; in turn, this will starve the ones you wish to die.

7 Things I Wish I Knew Before Starting Chemo

Chemo drunk is a feeling I can’t justly describe with words and adjectives.

I’ll take you back a bit: It’s December 21 and I’ve just finished my last chemo session at the hospital. I’m home, trying to have a conversation with my mom, but my eyes keep fixating on the velvet glow from a Yankee Candle. She says something funny and I laugh, a few seconds too late.

My mind is soupy and slow, like bisque that’s started to congeal. I hear words but my thoughts are lost in the emptiness of space. I meticulously toil over sentences, calculating each one through my head with the speed of an early edition fax machine. Something metallic catches my eye, the hardware on my mother’s purse, and now I’m hypnotized by how the silver reflects the flickering candle. It feels like my eyes are lost. They don’t know what to look toward, so they find light and drift to it drunkenly. My body is buzzing inside. I’m an old noisy refrigerator.

This feeling is nothing like alcohol intoxication. This is what it feels like to be dying. My cells, both good and bad, are being devoured as the poisonous cocktail of chemotherapy drugs flows through my veins. I’m being brought to the brink of death, just so I can rebuild. It’s war; destroy the enemy with brute force, but the victor suffers the casualties of battle as well.

You don’t want to be left wounded on the battlefield. Chemo is an experience we’re mostly unprepared to handle. My first few times were terrifying and I didn’t know what I was doing or what to expect. So, I’d like to share seven things I wish I had known about chemo before I started.

You should drink so much water during chemo that you will feel like a water balloon. If you can’t drink water, try Gatorade, juice, or popsicles. I suggest you pack a lunch like you’re in third grade and your mom has just let you buy anything from the grocery store. Chemo is time-consuming and boring; knowing that you will have a few hours to sit around and eat whatever you want is something to look forward to.
Ice your feet and toes! I’m shocked at how many hospitals don’t practice this method to prevent neuropathy. My infusion nurse would bring me two buckets of ice water and rubber gloves before chemo. I’d soak my hands/feet for one long, miserable hour during Taxotere (docetaxel) treatment. It’s not fun, but I never had any neuropathy or damage to my nails.
You’re toxic. Your pee and saliva are toxic. The nurse will tell you that you need to flush the toilet at least twice and don’t share food or drinks with people.
Chemo isn’t the only drug you’ll be getting. Steroids, antihistamines, anti-nausea and anti-anxiety drugs are just some of the usual pre-chemo meds. I took Emend (aprepitant), which is a three-day pack of pills that prevents nausea. I never threw up
Dress warmly; hospitals are cold. Bring fuzzy socks or slippers for after your feet get an ice bath.
If your hair falls out, it will start on the 14th day following chemo. And it kind of hurts. It felt like dull needles digging into my scalp. By the time I shaved my head, I just wanted it gone. I also was a little drunk (champagne), because I had a head-shaving party. … Which leads me to my last point. …
You can still have a normal life. I had a party two weeks after my first chemo. I got drunk. I shaved my head. I cried. I sang Elton John songs with my friends until 3 a.m. I was alive. I was grateful. And I’m still alive because I never once let cancer or chemo stop me from living. You’re going to be fine. Drink the martini. Buy the fancy shoes. Keep on living your life, but with a tad more moxie.

Why You Should Never Ignore Your Intuition

I’m sitting in a dimly lit massage room, waiting for the masseuse to come back. A large clap of thunder explodes outside as the lights start to flicker between varying degrees of brightness. Aren’t massages supposed to be Zen, relaxing? This feels like the start of a horror movie. Oh God. How do I leave a note for somebody to please relocate my body to a dressing room at Neiman Marcus instead of the Massage Envy in a shopping center?

My thoughts are interrupted when the door opens. It’s the masseuse lady; she’s holding an iPad, reading over my health questionnaire I filled out moments ago. She has a slightly puzzled, sad look on her face as she reads about my colorful life as told by yes/no/fill-in-the-blank questions. It’s the same look I always get when people see that I had cancer: long puppy dog face.

I smile in an attempt to disrupt this pity party. “Yeah I had breast cancer, I’m fine now. Do you have one of those boob-pillow things? I can’t lay on my stomach very easily with these foobies.” The conversations that follow are predictable. The first question is almost always: “How did you know you had cancer?” Well, I didn’t know. I think that people ask me that because there is a preconceived notion that breast cancer makes you feel sick or it hurts. Like when you know you have a cold because you’re coughing and sneezing. Anna says she assumed that cancer made you feel sick, and that it mainly only happened to older, unhealthy people. Right now, take all those ideas you may have about who gets cancer and bury them. Let them be as dead as Juicy Couture tracksuits.

For two years I unknowingly had cancer. It was 2013 when I discovered that pea-sized lump. I sat paralyzed on the couch, Googling breast cancer for hours as waves of fear washed over me and made my body numb with anxiety. My intuition immediately told me I had cancer. I begged my gynecologist to squeeze me in for a sonogram. After the breast sonogram, I got a call from a very chipper woman “There’s nothing there, you got all worried about nothing!” Her voice was filled with phony enthusiasm, like saccharin and crushed Prozac. But I craved those reassuring words so much that I swallowed every promise she told me and buried the fear deep inside. After my second sonogram 6 months later, and again at 12 months I was told “You’re fine!” Did she really think I was fine, or did she just brush me off as a 28-year old hypochondriac? Was I crazy to question her about why a non-cancerous tumor was getting bigger? Why didn’t she recommend a biopsy? We trust these people with our lives, but in reality they don’t enjoy unearthing bad news just as much as we don’t enjoy hearing it. Maybe that’s why she didn’t dig, and neither did I. I now realize that a framed piece of paper saying that someone is a doctor will never trump a gut intuition.

Finally, I went to a different doctor who biopsied the lump, and well, you know the rest. I guess I had to grow a backbone and stand up for my intuition. It was either that, or start digging myself a grave. I could have buried my head in the sand, and listened to my doctors who all told me that I couldn’t get breast cancer because I was too young, too healthy, and had no family history of the disease. I’m not saying don’t listen to your doctor; I’m saying listen to yourself first and foremost and find a doctor who agrees.

I’m sure I’ll still get asked all of those questions a thousand times more, and I’m happy to answer them. But please educate yourself on the signs and symptoms of breast cancer. It could just save your life.

Namaste, ladies.

A Rising Tide Lifts All Boats

Go ahead, insult me. I dare you.

There is a disheveled little karaoke bar that is walking distance from my old address. It’s across from a strip of beach that’s lined with predominantly vacant snowbird condo buildings that are older than me. Inside the nautical-themed bar, it’s a sea of peppered gray and balding heads bobbing above a tide of Tommy Bahama button-ups and sun-bleached T-shirts advertising various Key West bars. It’s the least pretentious bar you could ever imagine visiting.

The South Florida city where I live is famously pretentious. It’s a place where money and beauty are common, and deciding whether to drive the Bentley or the Maybach to the grocery store is an actual choice for a lot of people. Where the hard-bodied weekend warriors masquerade through the sleek nightlife in their designer camouflage to atone for their insecurities. They’re peacocks fanning out their Chanel feathers.

The karaoke bar is a sanctuary away from the peacocks. After chemo, I sought out these safe places where I could avoid the size 0 birds and their irrationally beautiful skin and hair. Girls can be cruel, and when you don’t have hair, eyebrows, or eyelashes, the thought of being caught in the sightline of a Regina George-type (Mean Girls) will make you sweat like a polar bear on South Beach.

That evening, I was wearing a long, brown wig and a floppy, black hat. I had on fake eyelashes and stenciled eyebrows. It always was quite exhausting to get my face ready for public view, but I did it wearily because I needed a liquid remedy with friends after my week. Upon ordering our drinks at the bar, I overheard a male voice near me say, “Why would she wear a hat indoors at night? It’s dark out. You’d look better in that hat, anyways, babe.”

I froze. I came here to escape those exact words that he spoke, and yet here I was in my secure little nest being judged. The peacocks had infiltrated. I could have pretended that I didn’t hear it. But I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t stand up to this pejorative frat boy in the name of all of those who have been victims of the mean girls and boys in life.

So, I turned slowly to him with squinty eyes and said,“Oh, you don’t like my hat? If you want to know why I’m wearing a hat indoors, then you should just ask me. Because this is why.” I dramatically ripped off my hat and wig to reveal my bald head. “I had cancer. So, NEXT TIME … before you open your mouth to judge someone, you’d better think about me (insert expletive).” Drop mic.

The horrified faces of the frat boy and the girl almost made me feel bad for what I had done. Almost.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only time something like that happened. Cancer can make you fragile, but its moments like these that will ignite a fire deep within. We have a confidence that is unshakable because it does not rely on our outward appearance. Go ahead, insult me. I dare you.

By condemning each other, we’re only breaking ourselves and submerging our own insecurities — women, especially. We need to stick together. We need to empower each other instead of condemning, because a rising tide lifts all boats. I encourage you to strip away your own intangible veils the way I ripped off my wig. If we remove the façade, we’ll realize we’re all just men and women fighting the same struggles.

Bury the gossip, the office chatter, the neighborhood rants. Who are you really competing with or trying to impress? Think about it. And then go watch Mean Girls for a good laugh.

This article first appeared on breastcancer-news.com.

White Lies, Rainbows and Puppies

White Lies, Rainbows and Puppies: Sometimes We Just Need a Good Cry

Sometimes I get really sick of talking about cancer. I get sick of hearing my own voice, of talking about wigs and boobs, of posting photos of my chemo-hair updates with the inflated enthusiasm of an elf on crack. At times, I want to pretend that it all never happened. To never speak the word cancer again. To never write a single syllable or utter a single breath on the topic. Sometimes, my overzealous optimism becomes too full and embellished; it collapses beneath the burden of its own weight. It’s a difficult job to always be a cheerleader.

Sometimes I just want to talk about cat memes and tacos. Like, what’s cancer?

When a person asks about my cancer experiences, it can be an out-of-body experience. I am standing right next to this human who looks like me, watching her talk. “Chemo didn’t even make me sick. Me and my friends went out to a beach bar and drank vodka martinis a few days after my second chemo!” Remember that show VH1 Pop Up Videos? A white conversation bubble pops on the screen. “True Story: She had one drink, 8 days after chemo and had to leave the bar because she was nauseous and had unbearable heartburn! LOL.” That info nugget indicts me of my white lies. Of my cancer propaganda that narrates an altered story.

I will never outwardly admit that things weren’t all rainbows and puppies. It’s the big sister in me who is being intrinsically protective. I’m hiding the callous truths from my friends and family who may get cancer at some point in their lives. I’m guarding my own ego. Because, as bad as things may get, I am the type who never will admit to it. It’s mind over matter.

As a cancer survivor, we all have a myriad of internal struggles about coming to terms with what we’ve been through. Everyone will say “You’re so strong, you’re so brave.” In truth, we don’t feel that way. We try to act fearless for everyone else’s sake. Brave? Me? Bravery is when you run into a burning building to save a baby. We’re not running head-first into cancer. We didn’t choose this. We’re running head first into survival. And it can be exhausting.

So, forgive me and forgive us, when we’re not always standing tall with our hands on our hips and projecting a rainbow beacon of bravery like a pink Care Bear. As much as we wish we were a magical cartoon with superpowers, we’re mortal humans who still put on our unicorn yoga pants one leg at a time.

So, if you’re a friend or family member aboard this ugly rollercoaster with us, just know that sometimes we just want stillness. Sometimes we don’t want to talk about cancer like it was an educational summer camp we attended and came home adorned in badges and medals. Sometimes we just need to hide in a closet and cry.

We are grateful and happy to be alive, but it’s equally gratifying to occasionally have a good ugly-faced cry and think about how far we’ve come. We recall those little white lies that we told our friends and family, “Oh, I feel great! Surgery was a breeze.” Because, unless you’ve been there, you’ll never be able to handle our horror stores of physical pain and aching despair.

But we know the real truth. The stories we tell others may have a fake sparkly tint to them, but it’s not without reason. We rewrite them to selflessly protect you. And that’s what I believe makes us brave.

*Article first published 4/28/17 at Breastcancer-news.com by me, duh.

Advice to the newly diagnosed

Recently, I had a close friend who was diagnosed with cancer. This was actually a first for me. This is a real life friend who has cancer – like, not a friend who I met on social media after my diagnosis. I have plenty of friends who have fought cancer, I just haven’t met 99.9% of them!

(Side note: My social media cancer friends — can we all get a cancer conference together? Or maybe we all just meet in one city and go out for a weekend where we drink cocktails and look hot AF and show the world that cancer doesn’t have shit on us?!? Seriously, I think this needs to happen.) (Update–We’re also burning our wigs in a giant bon fire.)

Back to the main topic – I told my friend “welcome to the club!” because he’s now my cancer buddy! Also, he’s the same age as me so he’s joining the young cancer club which is an elite few 🙂

So we pow-wowed a bit and talked about cancer. He told me that his diagnosis was very eye opening, because before it happens to you personally, you kind of tend to make broad generalizations about cancer. When I say personally, I mean either YOU have cancer or your close family/friend does. And when I say “broad generalizations” I mean that most people don’t know jack shit about cancer. The unknown is what causes panic, fear, anxiety. The panic causes us to Google. The googling causes us to panic more.

So in light of our realization that most people don’t know shit about what it’s like to have cancer, I wanted to share a few things. For the newly diagnosed (whether it’s you, a friend, or family member) 7 little tidbits of advice and what to expect — because I wish that I had somebody who told me these things.

First of all, when you’re first diagnosed you’re fucking scared. (Duh, you know that) You basically start planning your own funeral.
I want everybody to wear white, not black, drink vodka sodas, eat Royal Farms chicken, and have Elton John play Tiny Dancer. Oh, and blast my ashes into outer space in a pink sparkley rocket.
As cool as your funeral plans may be, just stop it. You probably went on the internet and found the worst-of-the-worst cancer diagnosis scenario and are now convinced that you’re going to die. Stop it. Step away from the Google machine. Questions? Call a doctor, not WebMD. The internet is not your friend; the internet is the boy in 2^nd grade who stole your Lunchable.

Secondly, Cancer is (usually) more emotionally taxing on your loved ones than it is on you. Why? Because YOU (as the cancer patient) know that you’re inherently going to be fine. Sure you will freak out at first, but eventually, after you have sat with the doctors, after you know what a PET scan is, you know what your options are. You already threw those imaginary funeral plans in the invisible trash because – guess what— today more people are living from cancer than dying. But most people don’t really seem to grasp that. Especially your crazy [insert emotionally unstable relative here] who is so completely incapacitated with worrying about you that you find yourself always calming them. HELLO?!… This crazy relative doesn’t have cancer, but that doesn’t stop them from hyperventilating in Home Goods because they found napkins with pink breast cancer ribbons on them.
So the neurotic relatives are one thing — but whoever your caretaker is during this time (husband/wife/mom/etc) — be extra nice to them. It’s the hardest on these people. They may not be the ones that are sick, but they see you at your worst. The burden that they carry as your lifeline during your darkest hour is heavier than they are ever obligated to endure. It’s an emotional crusade to stay strong, to be the rock, to tell white lies to family when they ask how you’re doing (Doing great!). When really… you spent the past two nights throwing up like you did in your high school/college party days after you drank enough “jungle juice” to drown an elephant. The caretakers are our unsung heroes.

Third, prepare for a shitstorm of questions. You’re going to get questions and comments from anybody and everybody you’ve ever met (like that annoying girl you sat next to in freshman Poly Sci who now has enough babies to start her own little league team), and they are going to be so stupid/invasive/absurd that you’re going to whisper to yourself “whatttt the fuuucck” more times than you can count. Because they will ask things like: “Oh, so I guess now you can’t really have kids, because you can’t breastfeed right?” I’m not sure this person knows how a baby is born. Perhaps an anatomy lesson is due. “So what does cancer FEEL like? You could feel it right? It hurts?” If I could feel cancer… I would have been diagnosed a lot sooner, ya genius. I had a tumor, and yes I could feel that, but cancer doesn’t really have a feeling. Its symptoms are rarely noticeable which is why it goes undiagnosed in most people. “Oh you’re not going to die, the prognosis is good, right?” Just… never, ever ask a cancer patient about their life expectancy unless you are a doctor. Well, even if you are a doctor, you’re still running a high chance of getting crane kicked in the face because nobody wants to talk about an appraisal of their time left on Earth like we’re chit chatting about sports statistics. If they aren’t talking about it, don’t ask about it. Don’t mention dying. Ever.
So like I said earlier… please understand that most people are just misinformed, not malicious. Think about it… before your diagnosis, did you know that there were different combinations of chemo? Did you know that not everybody needs chemo, and that not every type of chemo makes your hair fall out? Did you even know what radiation is?

I admit. I didn’t know any of this. In my stupid brain I thought that people who got cancer usually died, or else it must not have been that bad. I thought that there were “good kinds of cancer” that were easy and similar to getting a virus treated with a Z-pack. I thought that people got cancer as a result of living an unhealthy lifestyle. Wrong Wrong Wrong.

Fourth — know that no matter what kind of cancer you have/had… the psychological effects remain the same whether its stage 1 or 5. Maybe you had stage 1 and the cancer was removed with minor surgery and no further treatment. Maybe you had stage 4 and cancer riddled your bones and the crevices of your insides. The self loathing and guilt that comes with a cancer diagnosis can be crippling. It fucks with your mind. Why did this happen to me? Was it because I [insert any bad vice/behavior here]? Did I cause this? Too much bacon? Not enough green tea?

You will constantly ask yourself “Will it come back again?” With a cancer diagnosis, you also get the pleasure of the grim fucking reaper snagging a permeant home in your subconscious. This grim reaper visits in seasonal times. He’s lounging next to you at the pool or standing across from you at the bar waving — as a friendly reminder that you could die. “Howdy ho neighbor! Just here to ruin your day!”

The fear of cancer returning. The anxiety of it recklessly colonizing and disabling your body in an unexpected homecoming. It’s a paralyzing thought that can hit you at startling moments. Death stalks you.

You don’t have to tell everybody. Refer to point 3. It’s up to you. I thought I had to tell everybody. You don’t, and not everybody needs to know you have cancer.

Time will fly during this scary period in your life. Which is good. It’s not one of those times you really want to “stop and take in the moment” like they tell you at your wedding. Your diagnosis will be a flurry of appointments and treatments. You’re constantly looking towards the next date on the calendar, next doctor, next chemo, next follow up. Before you know it you’re sitting here 1.5 years later with actual hair on your head, eyelashes, and new boobs. If you had chemo like I did, you’ll probably not remember a lot of the specifics during the hectic times (chemo brain – see previous post). The memories will float in your brain like a clouded drunk memory. Pretty neat-o!

You’re going to be okay. Cancer taught me that even if I do…die…someday from cancer… that will be ok too. I’m not afraid to die. It will make you brave in weird ways you can’t understand. It makes your family brave. It makes relationships stronger. It makes your faith stronger. You’re going to be fucking fine! Calm your tits.

If you’re newly diagnosed, or just have questions feel free to ask me. I have plenty more unsolicited advice! Even if your questions are weird and hopefully just mildly offensive that’s fine too. I want to educate people. There are too many things that we don’t ask or don’t say to each other because we’re afraid or embarrassed. Get over it, talk about it. Put an end to this stigma that cancer is a death sentence or that it’s contagious (oh yeah, forgot to mention I’ve heard that question too).

Be nice to each other, stay healthy. Ciao betches.

The Struggle is Real AF

Chemo brain is a real thing.

It’s 3:40 and I have an appointment at 4, and it’s going to take me at least twenty minutes to drive there in traffic this time of day. I grab my Louie bag. Toss in a bottle of water, my wallet and my makeup bag as I run out the door and hop into my car. Turn the car on. Put the car in reverse. Go to grab my phone to look up directions to my appointment. FUCK. I left my phone on the kitchen counter. Park car. Turn off engine. Run into the house like a crazy woman with a swarm of bees chasing her.

Just a normal moment in my life. This type of stuff happens every day. I. Forget. Everything. I would forget my own birthday if I didn’t have to write it on doctor forms all the time.

I’m not going to just any appointment either, I’m going to see a psychiatrist. Because I literally can’t deal with this sorry excuse for a brain anymore. I give up. I gave up. I tried for about 9 months to tell myself that chemo brain wasn’t that bad and that it didn’t affect me. In those months, I forgot birthdays. I forgot important doctor appointments. I forgot which airport I was flying out of. I forgot to pay a hospital bill. I forgot to call people back. I went to the grocery store to buy coffee and I came back with a cart full of food except for the coffee.

The last straw came when I started to notice that my forgetfulness could sometimes hurt other people. I was a half assed friend and person in general and I’ve never been that way until now. I knew it wasn’t who I was. My brain was like a generator being powered by a single potato.

I keep saying that I was going to see a psychiatrist for a few months, and again, I kept forgetting to make an appointment. Or I’d yield an anemic attempt to look up a local psychiatrist and get frustrated and give up. I tried taking “brain pills” like focus factor. I tried green tea, green caffeine, normal caffeine, gingko biloba, B vitamins, unicorn tears, vampire glitter, etc.

I was still driving the struggle bus all the way to struggle city. Sippin’ on that struggle sizzurp.
(sorry, you get the point)

But I finally got an appointment (which was not covered by insurance of course) and saw a psychiatrist. I am not a huge cheerleader for ADHD drugs like Adderall and Vyvanse but I knew I needed something. I was so frustrated. I knew I needed something to help me focus.

I met with the psychiatrist. I had never been to one before this moment in my life. It was literally verbatim like the movies. I was kinda excited! He had a mahogany paneled office with a large full-wall bookshelf stocked with leather-bound books, encyclopedias and old airplane figurines. He had a large leather couch and one of those chase lounge/bed thingys that you’re supposed to lay down on and cry and tell your life story. So chic! His desk was a huge solid mahogany one like the Prezzy has in his oval office. He didn’t have a computer or a laptop or even a phone on his desk. He had a pad of blank unlined paper…and …. get this… a fountain pen and an ink well. He dipped his pen in the ink and started writing his notes in cursive on blank paper. Fancy as fuck huh. He was old school. (he was also just plain old — he has been in practice for 57 years)

After I told him my life story and history, he said that it appeared like I had the inattentive type of ADHD. He thinks I probably had always had it, but that chemo had just exacerbated the symptoms. I figured that much. Growing up my friends didn’t exactly call me “Snoozin” for my sharp attention span. I had always been the type who quietly listened to other people speaking as I daydreamed about something else and their words fluttered in one ear and out the next.

Friend: Beep Boop Bap Zing Ping Pong Potato Tomato

Me: Wait did you just say you’re allergic to broccoli?

Friend: ……. What? No I said my son just stared playing hockey. And his allergies are terrible.

My brain: [ ting-tong-ching-chong fa lalalala ]
Me: Oh yeah ha-ha I was just kidding… Hockey, sounds neat-o. **insert awkward smile emoji**

Inattentive ADHD is descried as having at least 6 of these symptoms:

• Not paying attention to detail
• Making careless mistakes
• Failing to pay attention and keep on task
• Not listening
• Being unable to follow or understand instructions
• Avoiding tasks that involve effort
• Being distracted
• Being forgetful
• Losing things that are needed to complete tasks

So I left Doctor McFancy’s office with a written prescription for Adderall time release. Has it been working? Yes! Do I feel different? YES! Doesn’t Adderall make you feel jittery or hyper? No, not if it’s prescribed correctly and it’s working the way it should be. I feel great. It doesn’t keep me up all night. I take it when I wake up and it starts wearing down at around dinner time. Will Adderall work for everyone? I have no idea, I’m not a doctor although I’d like to have a doctor’s salary.

So it’s Monday and I’m just starting my second week on it. No complications or side effects so far. I’ll let you all know how it works long-term. There are no known side effects or interactions with Tamoxifen or any increased breast cancer risk.

I feel like I am normal. I am no longer a lazy slug with a potato-powered brain!

I want to note that medication may not be the best solution for everyone experiencing chemo brain. Certain chemotherapy drugs are also shown to have more damaging effects on cognitive function than others, as are certain hormone therapy drugs. Chemotherapy given in higher, more concentrated dosages (which is what I got) also has shown to have worse long term effects on cognitive functioning.

Hopefully, in my lifetime, we will see the day when chemotherapy is an outdated treatment. Although it does save lives, chemotherapy’s negative affects are garnering more attention and causing people to turn away and seek alternative therapy.

It’s just an endless cycle of pharmaceutical drugs. Doctors administer outrageously expensive chemotherapy medicine to kill cancer. Patient needs more pharmaceutical drugs to cope with chemo. Nausea drugs. Anxiety medicine. Pain pills. And then the long-term effects present a need for more expensive drugs to treat lymphedema, chronic pain, chemo brain, etc. Doctor visits, private psychiatrist sessions, surgery, hospital stays, physical therapy, expensive lab tests and scans.

Money, money, money.

I don’t know. If you regularly read my blog, you know that I’m usually very optimistic. But I do sort of feel a little bit defeated because I had to turn to another chemical to make myself feel normal again. It seems to have solved my problem for the time being, though. So for that, I am grateful. It just makes me think, what the fuck is taking so long with this cancer cure? If nobody profited off of all this medicine and treatment, would we have found a cure sooner?

Abso-fucking-lutely.

Deep thoughts. Thank you Adderall, I guess.

For more information on symptoms of chemo brain click here:
http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/chemo-brain/home/ovc-20170224

Eyelash extensions can go to Hell

It’s a love-hate relationship. Like, right now, I hate them. I got eyelash extensions the first week in April, when my eyelashes were presumably long enough to have extensions. The salon I went to was overjoyed to have me, and my $210. YES, that’s right: $175 plus I gave a $35 tip. Plus… I went back twice to get them “filled” for $80 each time. Round of applause for me. Again, I’ve found something stupid that I’ve wasted my money on. If you haven’t noticed, I am suffering from extreme buyers remorse at all the things I could have spent my money on instead of dead eyelashes.

I am going to refrain from listing the salon’s name, because truthfully I don’t think it was THEIR fault. I don’t think that the lash technician had actually ever put eyelash extensions on a chemo patient, so I don’t think they knew what to expect. I think that they just hoped for the best and swiped that credit card faster than a vegan at Whole Foods.

The first time was great, she placed small, thin individual lashes on my lashes. It basically just made them longer, which is what I wanted! Four weeks later, I had them filled and there was a new lady… she put on larger cluster lashes because she wanted to give me a “cat eye” look. I didn’t ask for this cat-eye look, but when she said “all finished!” in her upbeat Ukrainian accent and popped a mirror infront of my face, I couldn’t help but be impressed. Hot damn, momma’s lashes looked good!

Those lasted about a week before they started rapidly falling out and taking out my real lashes with them. Soon, I had large gaps and awkward chunks missing in my lash line. Hot damn, momma looks like a HOT MESS.

I went back in to get them filled by the same girl who originally did my lashes. She explained that the reason they were all falling out is because eyelash extensions are basically “like putting a really heavy backpack on a really small kid… the weight is too much for him to carry and he can’t grow if he’s carrying so much weight.”

**Sighhhhh**

Well since I was already there, I figured I’d try it one more time. So she tried to help me out. She put on really small, thin lashes very sparingly and tried to just make them look normal again. I barely lasted three days before over half of them had fallen back out. My lashes had clearly had enough. They were exhausted from carrying these heavy fake spears of vanity and gave up on life.

**Moment of silence for all of my fallen lashes**

By day 6, the extensions were all gone. Every. Single. Lash…. was now somewhere in my Dyson vacuum laying solemnly in a grave of gray dust and pet hair.

The point of my sad sob story isn’t to make you feel sorry for me and my stupid fleeting eyelashes_before_after attempts at vanity. I actually just wanted to send out a warning signal out there into the cancer community to anybody considering doing this as well. I really didn’t know this could happen. I thought I did enough research prior to my decision to get the extensions… but I didn’t look hard enough or talk to enough people. So heed my warning betches considering the pros and cons of these fluttery felons!

Yesterday, I told my plastic surgeon about my sad eyelash story. Without sympathy or regard, he told me to take Latisse like he had prior advised. OK I get it, nobody feels sorry for me. I impatiently sabotaged my normal, healthy growing eyelashes with these fake lash-slaying harpoons on my lids. Whatevsssss. LIVE and LEARN people. Live and learn.

My next plan of action is that I am trying castor oil on my lashes… which has been advised by numerous other cancer patients… and I’m going to suck it up and buy the Latisse. Which actually costs less than the extensions. For those wondering… castor oil is not motor oil! It’s from some sort of bean… a …castor bean? I assume. Yes. I Googled and it’s a bean. Also, my Google search revealed that these beans are also commonly used by children in Brazil as slingshots. Soooo there’s that.

If anybody has any other things you advise, please let me know! I am open to LITERALLY ANYTHING. I am even rubbing slingshot bean oil on my eyes for fuck’s sake!

I just wanted to end this post on a side note about hair. I’m really missing my long hair lately. Many of you who know me, know that I also like to “twirl” my hair while I’m working or thinking. Can’t do that now, and it’s driving me bananas So if you’re having a bad hair day, or think you hate your long hair and want to “pull a Britney Spears” and shave it all … Kindly shut the fuck up and go rub some oil in your eyes. HA! Ok ciao betches.

It could never happen to me.

Everybody thinks that it will never happen to them.

Cancer is a shady bitch like that. Imagine you’re just jogging (or walking) along your usual proverbial path… it’s such a routine that you could probably do it blindfolded. Except this time you slam into an elephant. “Wait, how the HELL did I not see that elephant?! Elephants aren’t even native to this country, why the fuck is it here?! Hello did somebody lose their …um… pet elephant?” You had your head down and you were flying down the path like a loose puppy with your ears flapping in the wind. You never expected to run into an elephant because, seriously, that only happens on an African safari or something right?

That’s exactly how cancer is. You didn’t see it coming, you weren’t looking for it, and you NEVER thought it could happen to you. It happens to other people maybe, but not you. You’re heathy and you’re heading down your path full speed into life’s bliss. Just heed my warning betches and don’t be naïve and dumb like I was.

Over two years ago I started following a girl on Instagram who was 24 and had breast cancer. I remember once I found her I was paralyzed on the couch, stalking her pictures for about an hour saying “what the fucccckkkkk” about a hundred times under my breath. As I scanned over images of her bald head and scarred body I remember exactly how I felt; terrified, horrified, amazed, despondent. How could somebody so young have breast cancer? In my lifetime, the few people that I knew who had cancer were older; in their 50’s and beyond. I couldn’t imagine being a young girl and having to put your life on hold to FIGHT for your life. I was even terrified to have my blood drawn (I used to pass out) so I couldn’t comprehend going through chemo and multiple surgeries. I was completely heartbroken going through her pictures. But as I continued to follow her story I realized that she was not sad or miserable, she was optimistic, happy, grateful. Amazing! How could somebody who has been dealt a shitty hand of cards in life be so content and cheerful?
Keep reading…

I know that God was looking out for me back then. Somehow in the divine tapestry of the universe I found her Instagram account and was given a foreshadowing into my own future. Of course, I had no idea back then, but now I am certain of this. When I was diagnosed, I remembered her and it helped me to know that I wasn’t alone, and that I needed to be optimistic and unafraid. At the same time I discovered her Instagram, I had the small lump in my right boob. Even after seeing the 24 year old girl with breast cancer, I was still disavowed with the notion that I might have cancer also. I used any excuse available. “Well my doctor said it looks like a fibroid, and so I trust the expert’s opinion.” I didn’t trust the gut feeling that was nagging at me. Also at that time, my mind was clouded as I was divorcing my ex-husband so I didn’t even have a spare brain cell left to consider the possibility of cancer. I was just certain that those things don’t happen. Nobody gets dealt a hand that includes an unfaithful, narcissistic husband AND breast cancer at 28. That shit DOES NOT happen… right?

Well, whatever boo-hoo it happened. I tripped over the elephant because I didn’t believe that elephants existed. I ignored the signs. I didn’t listen to my body or my intuition. My point is: don’t let that happen to you, safeguard your life. You can still run full speed ahead, like I am doing, just keep your head up and pay attention to the signs along the way. If you have family members who have cancer, you especially can’t think that it couldn’t happen to you. My father’s side of the family carries the ATM genetic mutation, which we only recently found out in light of my cancer diagnosis. I’ve encouraged them all to get tested for this mutation. If you carried a cancer gene wouldn’t you want to know so you could prepare and defend yourself from this horrible disease? I wish I had known before it was too late, because now I’ve lost my boobs and my hair. So please don’t be naïve and think it can’t happen to you, cancer can happen to anybody. Please visit your doctor regularly and speak up about any pains and issue, no matter how small. And please for the love of God get a mammogram if you’re over 40 and a biopsy on any breast lumps no matter how old you are. Either way, when you get those results you’ll either be relieved that you’re in the clear or relieved that you’ve caught the cancer before it can do any damage.

Also, the Instagram profile was @NalieAgustin if you’d like to follow her!

This is what cancer really looks like…

It’s not a pink sparkly ribbon. It’s not pretty. It fucking sucks.

I had my port removed on Tuesday and it’s gruesome. My plastic surgeon removed it and he was going to sew it shut and make the scar look pretty, but when he got in there he had to remove a lot of scar tissue and infected skin. He wasn’t able to close the wound because he was worried that the infection would essentially be sewn shut in there and it would cause an abscess. FUN.

So now I have a gaping hole in my chest where I can literally see my own flesh. To be honest, it looks worse than it feels. It doesn’t really hurt, it doesn’t bleed. I just slap a giant band-aid over it every morning and that’s all I’m supposed to do for now. It’s supposed to take about 6-8 weeks to heal completely. So without further adieu… if you’d like to view these pictures please click the link below. Warning: if you’re a weak bitch and you’re grossed out by blood then don’t look!

View the pics…

Chemo is over…

My last chemo: 12/21/2015.

Last week I laid in my bed, the night before my last chemo unable to sleep well. There is this fear that grips me; it tightens my throat and waters my eyes like an icy cold blast of air. What if this isn’t the end? What if I haven’t done enough? I’ve spent the past 6 months in defensive mode against cancer. I’ve exhausted those months always doing something; chemo, mastectomy, pills, exams, diets, needles. Now it’s all over with. Sometimes I feel like I’m going to be that dove that is freed from it’s cage and flies right into a glass window.

I had read about and anticipated this emotional feeling on cancer websites, but it hasn’t stopped me from feeling this way. I am definitely SUPER FUCKING HAPPY and excited that my chemotherapy journey is over, but it’s not without mixed emotions. Of course I don’t want anymore chemo, but it’s a little scary knowing that I’m not receiving the cancer-killing drug anymore.

In the past, I let my fear control me. It manifested itself in anxiety, self-doubt, and denial in my life. Now I’m choosing to control my own emotions. It actually did take me 30 years to realize the simple fact that I can manage my own emotions and create my own destiny. Better late than never I guess? I anticipate that this post-cancer anxiety is going to feel like a dark cloud over me some days, but I’m choosing to stay in the light and believe with all my heart that this is the end of the road for cancer in my life. I will love every gorgeous breath that I inhale and be forever grateful that I was given a chance to stare death in the eyes and tell him to fuck off.

People often say to me “You’re so brave! You have so much courage!” and every time I hear it, I tend to nervously laugh it off because I’ve never considered myself brave. And you know what, honestly I was NOT brave, I was scared shitless every second. But when you’re faced with a situation in which you could actually die, you choose LIFE, not because you’re brave but because surviving is inherent in each of us. I didn’t run towards danger, I ran AWAY from it! I’m not a hero! Instead of saying I’m brave, I’d like to think I was just lucky enough to be in a situation where I could confront my deepest fears and learn from the experience. I’ve learned the emotions and mentality that it necessitates to be brave, and from here on out I will be that way with a grateful heart. Everyone has bravery in them so I challenge you to do something brave! Go skydiving, admit when you’re wrong, pursue an impossible dream, sacrifice something of yours for someone else, face your phobias and fears! You are in control.

“Promise me you’ll always remember: You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.” – Christopher Robin to Pooh

One more to go!

Chemo for Christmas

So I haven’t wrote on my blog in a while, since my last chemo. I had my 2nd to last chemo on Monday (yesterday) and I have to say I’m feeling it pretty hard today. My doctor warned me that the last two chemo treatments will be the worst. My last one is on December 21, so I can expect to have a not-so-jolly Christmas. YAY. But I’m not delaying anything, To quote Clark Griswold (he gets me) from the movie Christmas Vacation:

“Where do you think you’re going? Nobody’s leaving. Nobody’s walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We’re all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We’re gonna press on, and we’re gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny fucking Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he’s gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.”

Also, my parents are coming here on the 22nd so there’s no way I’m backing out of Christmas shenanigans! With only ONE MORE CHEMO LEFT, I have to say; the hot flashes are epic, my anxiety is erratic, my stomach, appetite, and emotions are all unpredictable, and the headaches are the worst I’ve ever had, but I DON’T CARE I’M ALMOST DONE!

It’s like they say, every cloud has it’s silver lining; or always look on the bright side. No, it’s like sorting through 100 pounds of hand-me-down-clothes because you know there’s a perfect vintage Chanel bag in there somewhere. Basically, what I’m saying is that I endured these past 6 months with a positive mindset because I know it will all be worth it when it’s all over. So for now I’ll keep my head held high and say “Fuck you chemo, Fuck you cancer, you’re not ruining my Christmas spirit!”
Keep reading…

Getting the “Red Devil” chemo. This literally makes me sick just looking at it.

During Chemo #5, I wasn't feeling too good. — During Chemo #5, I wasn’t feeling too good.

7-Day Chemo Diary

I often get asked how I feel after chemo, so in order to help people understand I’m going to do a 7 day chemo diary with a synopsis of my physical and emotional status on each day.

Day 1: Chemo day!

Physical activity level: Normal. No exercise. A little sleepy after chemo.
Hunger level: Normal.
Pain/discomforts: None
Emotional status: Anxious to get it over with! Give me my poison and get it over with!

Keep reading…

Day 2 Post-Chemo:

Physical activity level: Normal. Usually the steroids give me a boost of energy.
Hunger level: Normal. The anti-nausea meds are working and make me want to eat pretty regularly.
Pain/discomforts: None
Emotional status: Good. Relieved another chemo is down!

Day 3 Post-Chemo:

Physical activity level: Normal, medium.
Hunger level: Normal, but I find that I usually feel “full” faster from all the anti-nausea medicine.
Pain/discomforts: This morning I get my Nulasta shot. I feel pain at the injection site, and slight bone pain and discomfort later in the evening. Occasionally if it gets bad, I take a half a Vicodin prescribed by my oncologist.
Emotional status: Feeling good!

Day 4 Post-Chemo:

Physical activity level: Slowing down. Went to sleep at 9pm.
Hunger level: Low. Stuff tastes bland. I had soup for lunch, a quesadilla for dinner.
Pain/discomforts: Pain is rising! The Nulasta shot usually makes me feel like I’ve been hit by a bus, or ran a marathon. It’s a full-body all over aching. It feels like you’ve had a really hard workout and your bones feel like they’re going to shatter.
Emotional status: Good but feeling drained.

Day 5 Post-Chemo:

Physical activity level: Low. I put on workout clothes but did not actually workout.
Hunger level: Hungry actually. I ate a double cheeseburger and parmesan onion rings for lunch and felt like a fat, happy pig!
Pain/discomforts: Nulastaaaaaa you kill me. Feeling rundown and achy. Slight headache. Also, my eye keeps twitching. WTF is up with that?
Emotional status: Good. Feeling a little useless though. Feeling like a blob with no energy.

Day 6 Post-Chemo:

Physical activity level: Low. Running a slight fever of 100.
Hunger level: Low, but still eating fairly normal.
Pain/discomforts: Major headache. Like clockwork, on day 5-6 after chemo I get blinding headaches and a slight fever. It’s from the over-production of white-blood cells due to Nulasta. My body is producing all these white blood which signals to my body that something must be wrong. My body is like: “There’s an infection somewhere! All these white blood cells! OMG! Signal the fever! Let’s get cookin!” I found this out by going to the emergency room on day 5 after my 2nd chemo and they ran all sorts of tests to see why I had a fever. Nothing was wrong, just Nulasta being a nasty little bitch. Now I basically live on Tylenol every 6 hours during these Nulasta attacks. I wish I didn’t have to get Nulasta, but it helps me bounce back after chemo and also protects my immune system.
Emotional status: Blah.

Day 7 Post-Chemo:

Physical activity level: Good, better!
Hunger level: Good, improving!
Pain/ discomforts: The headaches have subsided but that’s probably due to me popping Tylenol like tic-tacs. (Err, jk. I take them as directed)
Emotional status: GOOD. Actually feeling like I can get shit done today. I might even go to the grocery store. Or Target?! I don’t know! Yaaassss!