chemoville capers

Who knew people would be keen to accompany me to chemo?

As I mentioned daughter J. did a sexual puppet show at the foot of my bed.

My number two daughter F came sporting a white off -the- shoulder blouse that revealed her extensive tattoo glory, white blonde hair (she was channeling Marilyn Munro at that time) bright red lips and such chirpy energy I had to tell her to be quiet. The oldies could not stop staring at her and I don't blame them.

One friend rubbed my free arm and encouraged me to relax.

And another friend who was formerly an intensive care nurse, was a complete angel! Just the right voice, the right touch, and the drink the moment it was needed. She was so wonderful.


The nurses in daycare are constantly changing because the environment is so gruesome and the pressure so intense around avoiding errors.


I had one male nurse who managed to cord my veins through improper cleansing and hurried treatment. The fat asshole would not listen to me that my veins are small and rubbery. He just kept jabbing in my arm. Toward the end of his attempts I dropped the Miss Nice Compliant Patient regime and barked at him to get someone who knows what they are doing. One bad poke is all anyone gets now. Take that as you will.

At the start of chemo I was given steroids and anti nausea drugs before any of the joy juice gets infused. I could feel my face swell and my sinuses start to fill immediately.


The treatment itself is painless. As the stuff went into my body the anti nausea drugs kicked in and all I felt was thick, thick, thick. There is a terrible taste and my body and brain were out of sync. And the knowledge that I had to do this three more times. In fact, I was lucky. The cancer I had did not have the gene to replicate itself. So only four chemos instead of months and months of chemo to irradicate the cancer that can just grow again in anothe place.

I went back to work as soon as was feasible to retain some measure of normalcy in my life.

Wasting Away in Chemoville

Please sing the title to the tune of 'Wasting Away in Margaritaville'.

The day for my first chemotherapy treatment sped closer and closer. My feeling of mounting dread can be best described as someone being dragged to the electric chair. Instead of a jolt of electricity, I was to be given a lethal dose.

People kept giving me helpful suggestions:
· Fight with all of your might.
· You have to go with the chemo for it to work.
· Positive thinking will heal you.

I found this sort of cant irritating. What about the others who died? Didn’t they fight? Were they negative? The power of prayer is really not a proven power except in the minds of believers. The chemo either is successful or the cancer comes back in situ or worse. It is a crap shoot.

J and Alison accompanied me on the first chemo treatment. So did Pepsi my husband. I got dressed to the absolute nines as armour. It was just a gruesome and surreal as I anticipated.

I arrived in the area called ‘daycare’ and waited for my chemo nurse. Quite a number of people were seated in chairs that looked much like old fashioned beautician chairs. Instead of a hair dryer, there was the machine that dispensed the chemo.I voted to lie on the bed instead of sitting up for fear I would fall over.



My veins weren't too thrilled either.As soon as they tried to get a needle into my arm, the vein would roll away. The nurse struggled and found a vein in my left arm. The right arm cannot be used for blood pressure, blood tests or even heavy lifting because of the removal of the sentinel node gland for fear of triggering the dreaded and permanent condition of lymphadema…fluid fills your arm and it blows up like a baloney.

The nurse explained that there were two drugs..a and c…I don’t know the names…I refused to learn…I will not become medicalized. Much checking takes place. I had to verify the name on the bags of poison and mine were the same.

The nurse held the orange bag aloft and dramatically announced…this is what will make your hair fall out. Not to be outdone by Nurse Sensitivity's drama I burst into tears. Truthfully, it was not the hair loss….it was the fact I had to allow this gross orange poison flood my system.



The people in the ward are mainly seniors in the plus 70 age range. Cancer is mainly an older person disease. I saw many topsy turvey wigs and rather lost looking people. Some were so ill it was painful to see them.



That brings me to the energy at the Cancer Institute. When J. and I went for one of my first appointments were were waiting in the 'Sunshine Cafe.' I felt a wall, a miasma of terror, angst, dispair surrounding me. Yeah, I was upset but not like that. I looked at J. and saw that her eyes were widely dilated. I asked, 'Can you feel that?' She said, 'You must never come here along.'



Time dripped by as the chemo was infused into my body. Takes about 2 hours. I made it through the first chemo thanks to my husband Pepsi, my friend Alison, and my beloved mini medical pitbull J. She helped pass the time by conducting a puppet show at the foot of my bed. Sexually suggestive, naturally.

Only three more to go.

Chemo, radiation, mini medical pit bull

I cried when I was waiting for my surgery. This is considered extreme behaviour in surgery terms. Medical people cluster around you to ask what you are crying about. I told them that I did not want this to be happening, not at all. They agreed that no one would want this.

The physician that gave me the anaesthetic looked like the Magician in the tarot deck. First, he touched my hand to introduce himself. I found his touch cool and soothing, and yet somehow powerful. When they had strapped me down on the operating table he inserted the needles lightly, lightly into my arm, with an apology, in case it hurt. Later a nurse whispered that I was lucky to have him because he is the best. I think so. When you think someone is powerful and yet very kind, it reduces your fear and anxiety.

When I woke up in recovery, a nurse rushed to me to ask if I had any pain. Yes, I said. It was a little painful but mostly I like the hospital dope. Hey, I almost never get it. And so I got something for the pain. Quite a few times. Those recovery nurses were so gentle with me that I sent a thank you with a picture of Sgathach. I really felt no pain all day. Or the next day for that matter. My breast was a little bit sore but my breast area is not that sensitive. I guess it comes from not wearing a bra for so many years.

Right after the surgery my husband told me he was leaving for Australia for two weeks. So while he was gone I waited to hear the results of the tests on the cancer and how far it had spread. It was a tough period. My intestines did the polka of fear to such an extent that I had to get medication to simmer the skinny little dancers down. I was so upset, and maybe this is too much information, but I could not stop pooping my pants. I thought I could go back to work but the weakness persisted so that I had to wait for a full month to return. Well, that and the shitty pants of course.

Finally, my posse went back to the surgeon for the verdict. When he came into the tiny room he said, oh, yeah, you guys. So, here’s the scoop: Stage 1 – 2 invasive breast cancer, no involvement of sentinel node (they took it out anyway). Hurrah??

A month after the surgery, treatment can’t start any sooner anyway, I heard from the Cross about my appointment with the oncologist. The woman was simply calling to book the appointment with me but I was so freaked out that I could not hear her. I had to get her to repeat herself several times until the blood in my ears stopped pounding so loudly.

My posse and I headed to the Cancer Institute to hear the news. The way the oncologist explained things to us was that based on my data, age, type of cancer, stage, etc. I was recommended a treatment plan that came from a data base of women in similar circumstances. There is a huge data base of women in Canada and USA that the doctor drew upon. Gruesome news, though. Four treatments of the dreaded chemotherapy, and an unspecified number of weeks of radiation.

All the information he gave us was recorded both by cassette which I cannot imagine every wanting to hear again and by my beloved J. who was my scribe throughout. She went to every appointment with the cancer book and took exceptional notes.

She would listen, write and ask the most penetrating questions. I felt awe, pride, love and a little frightened of her. She certainly caused the medical personnel to stand back. They were not slipping anything by her that would hurt her mom. My mini medical pit bull.

I would like to add that my jaunty tone in no way conveys my emotions. As I write this I am trembling and crying.

Surgery and shock

Monday, April 16, 2007

Subject: Bearer of bad news
Heather had a mammogram last week which detected something and today that something was confirmed as Stage 2 breast cancer. She scheduled for a mastectomy within the next two weeks. I’d have a few choice words for the situation but it might not make it through your internet security.

She asked me to pass the word along – she’s gone home tonight for a good cry and to be in the ‘boozum’ of her family – but I know she will be needing all of our good wishes and tender mercies over the next few weeks.

Yours in shock and sorry but basically optimistic! Alison.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007
1:30 pm.
Went by my favourite shoe store today and dropped in. Saw a pair of boots that are multicoloured stripes that begged me to wear them, especially to see a breast cancer surgeon. I debated but after I talked to the sales people I bought them and put them right on my feet. Ready for anything…nearly.

My posse and I met with the surgeon. There was so many of us in his tiny examination room that he stepped into the room, paused, and then nearly stepped out again.

The surgeon explained that I had choices. Mastectomy or lumpectomy. Lumpectomy is a gamble that you will get the mastectomy anyway. But I took it. Lumpectomy it was.

The procedure is done by day surgery and with the current infection rates at the hospital, I was happy about this.

6:30 pm.
Subject: Room for much optimism
Saw the surgeon today…quite cute, a member of the Off White Blues Band…but I digress. I am having a lumpectomy next Wednesday…only a day procedure. After about a month I start treatment at the Cancer Institute. Not sure what that will be right now, but for sure radiation.

So, in light of the bad news of cancer, this is the first step toward treatment and toward healing. I feel quite upbeat and will let you know how matters progress. Heather

My daughters J. and F. dealt with the news of my breast cancer quite differently. F. was in Hawaii when I called her. She sobbed into the arms of my sister which was good. Her boss felt I had ruined her holiday with the news. F. said it did ruin her holiday but she would have been devastated if she didn’t learn until she got back. I don’t know if I did the right thing or the wrong thing.

J. decided to shave her head, quit her job and care for me immediately and have a baby. Not too sure what order she planned. And, she was quite determined that I needed to have a power war cry like Zena the Warrior Princess.

Oh, I did try. I gave a few half hearted shrieks and bellows but nothing that schmecked with any sincerity. When I think of a protective spirit I saw my grandmother Nellie brandishing the Scottish woman’s weapon, a broom, to vanquish the interloper.

I found a Scottish warrior princess and J. photo shopped a broom in place of her sword. Her name is Sgathach. This is pronounced with much guttural throat clearing and sprayed spittle. She became my emblem and my daughter was comforted to know I would fight the cancer.

Making Friends with an Enemy

Hawaii 2008

My friend Jeni told me that I had to 'make friends with my cancer' to integrate the experience so I can move on with living. Personally I would never want a friend like invasive breast cancer. But it did arise in my body and until excised by a surgeon, this breast cancer nestled close to my breast plate.

In March 2007, after I got back from a terrific holiday in Thailand I went for my annual check up. My doctor gave me a request for a mammogram. I told her that I didn't need the screening. No one in my family had breast cancer. 'Go on,' she said. 'It's been two years.'

On April 12, I went for the mammogram. I had a little sore spot under my left arm pit which they carefully marked for further attention. I waited in my little paper nightie and the technician said they wanted to take a closer look at something. This Breast Centre is so thorough in how they check you out, I did not have the slightest foreshadowing...I was just worrying that the appointment was taking so long.

They were not interested in the sore spot under my left arm pit. Just glands they said. They wanted to do an ultra sound of the right breast. And, before I knew what was happening, the radiologist was coming to take a tissue sample.

Four women huddled over me in a little treatment room so tenderly. Women have a way of telegraphing information. As they worked to locate and take samples of the 'area' they said things like; it's so deep, it's lying right on the breast plate, and its very hard to get to reach. I could tell that the news might be grim. My family tried to tell me not to be such a catastrophic thinker but the women told me so I could prepare myself.

On April 16 my doctor called me to come in for the results. That is never good when the doctor wants to see you. She said, 'I know you feel like a house just dropped on your head,' but it was my house that was leveled. An appointment with the surgeon was set up for April 17.

That day I had to tell my family. I always thought that if I got something like cancer I would just bravely keep it to myself. But I know why I had this notion. Because, telling my family I had breast cancer was just about the worst experience of my life, without exception. I killed me to make them cry and worry about me. I am supposed to help them, not cause this kind of anguish.

My husband was knocked over. I had to contact my youngest daughter who was holidaying with my sister in Hawaii. They both cried so much that it was awful. I had to tell my oldest daughter. She was devastated. And I realize that for my two daughters it was a double whammy. For their mother and for their potential health concerns in the future. At this point, I only had a diagnosis, no idea of what kind of cancer, how much it had spread and if I was about to die soon.

So, as a finger in the eye of fate, we had fish and chips and the most expensive bottle of champagne I could buy for dinner.

Thailand 2008

The setting for the birth of this blog is paradise. I am on a beach in Krabi in Thailand. This is a busy place with families, sailing boats, long tailed boats and pleasure yachts on the Andaman Sea.

My husband and I are sharing the shade of the tree with a large group of German tourists. They wish we would go away but no one has the courage to tell us. If its privacy they are concerned about, they should have no fear. We don't understand a word that they are saying.

After my experience in 2007 I set some goals for 2008/09. I run my goal years from February to February. Gives me more time to actually do something.

• I want to run a half marathon and I am signed up for one in Red Deer on May 18. My daugher, her husband to be and I are in training. The evenings when it is - 35 C. I do say pass.

• I want to learn to play a musical instrument in a rudimentary fashion. My husband came up with the notion of the autoharp. I have one now so there is no escape. I just need to practice quite a lot before it will sound anything like music.

• Lastly I want to start to write seriously and get published. I was toying with the idea that a letter to the newspaper editor might count when I came up with the idea of a blog.

I contacted my daughter for her advice about setting up a blog and she got it set up in 15 minutes. She wrote the opening remarks initially but I changed what she had written. She wrote on my behalf that I hoped peopled enjoyed the ride about my cancer treatment more than I did. But that is not my view. This blog is a way to try to make sense out of a random act of cancer. So here goes.

Welcome to the Uniboober File

This blog will recount my recent journey through breast cancer treatment. Right now the ending is happy.