Today's chemo session started with some very good omens:
- I was assigned to my favourite nurse, Nicole, who was also my first chemo nurse.
- I scored a window seat! Getting a window seat two sessions in a row seems very lucky! Maybe the scheduling clerk was thinking that it might be another long day.
- For the first time ever, I got a remote to raise and lower the back and the feet of the chair! Only 5 of the unit's chairs have a remote, and while it may seem a small thing, doing it manually is very awkward, especially when you have an IV in one arm.
And I'm happy to say that the good omens carried on through the infusion. I had no reaction today and finished up at the hospital 4.5 hours after start time, at 1 PM. This is a more typical time for the Taxol infusion.
The main cloud on today's session was my chemo unit neighbour, getting chemo for the first time. The dark cloud is that she is 31 years old, with stage 3 breast cancer. The cancer diagnosis was very unexpected for her. Until 21 December, all her health care providers, including the surgeon who did a lumpectomy, were convinced that it was an in situ cancer, "stage 0," considered by some to be "pre-cancer." So the stage 3 diagnosis, from the pathology report, was a shock for everyone, and especially my clinic neighbour. She was scared and nervous today, understandably. We introduced ourselves and I quickly learned that she is getting the same chemo regimen that I am. So I was able to tell her a bit about my experiences, which she found helpful.
My experience of the chemo unit is that most patients are uncomfortable saying hello or even catching your eye. It seems like southern Ontario reserve, compounded by the discomfort of knowing that everyone is there for the same reason; some people are clearly not doing so well. Most of us are not used to being so vulnerable, and with so little privacy about our medical situations. Perhaps the reserve is also an attempt to protect one's own and others' privacy, and not add to the discomfort.
So it was completely unexpected when another young woman, wearing a head scarf and mustard yellow sweater, came around the corner and asked my chemo neighbour if she could give her a hug. The yellow sweater woman was on the other side of the half wall and clearly had overheard the conversation. My neighbour accepted the hug and began to cry. The yellow sweater woman, who is 40, explained that she has a recurrence of ovarian cancer that was first diagnosed 4 years ago, in Toronto. She remembered how scared she was and didn't know how she would have gotten through her first chemo without her husband. But now, in COVID times, no-one is allowed to accompany their loved one into the chemo unit. We learned that the yellow sweater woman is originally from Mexico, where hugging strangers in distress is clearly much more acceptable than for most in Southern Ontario. She explained that she loves talking to people, so with the permission of my neighbour, she pulled up a chair, and spent some time talking with her, while both women's chemo solutions were infusing. Nicole, the nurse, was very pleased with the little community of support that built around the first-timer. My neighbour and I are on the same cycle - chemo every two weeks - so I will likely see her again next time (unless one of us gets scheduled later in the day, or has an unexpected postponement). And we have exchanged contact information.
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The medical oncologist I was seeing in 2021, Dr. Hammad, is on sabbatical now, and is taking her oncology knowledge and wisdom back to her home country, Sudan, and other African countries. Yesterday, I met her replacement, Dr. April Swoboda, who came to Kingston with her husband, an emergency room physician, and their two kids (ages 2 & 6), from Illinois. She specializes in breast cancer care and spent a long time with me. She was very pleased with how the tumour has responded to the chemo, and couldn't feel a tumour per se in the breast, just some thickening. She said that my type of tumour (estrogen +, progesterone +, HER2 -) doesn't always respond so well to chemotherapy, and that mine did probably means that it was growing quickly.
She was concerned about my neuropathy symptoms after the first Taxol treatment two weeks ago - numbness, burning, and pins and needles in my feet, especially my toes. Usually the neuropathy clears up, but sometimes it is permanent. She agreed that my plan to live another 3 decades or so is entirely reasonable and doesn't want me to be living with neuropathy for all those years. So, weighing the benefits and harms, she recommended that we reduce the dose by 20% for today's infusion, which we did, to try to prevent the neuropathy symptoms. So far, it is working!! But I will keep close tabs on any symptoms for the next 2 weeks, until I see her again.
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These Lake Ontario photos were taken last week, pre- and post- snow storm. There were lots of ducks and swans both days. It is completely frozen over now. My friend Andrew skated to Wolfe Island and back - twice! - one day earlier this week. He did test holes in the ice with his axe, and says there was 4-6 inches of ice all the way across. That will be even thicker after last night and tonight's frigid temperatures (-20 to -25). I'm hoping my energy reserves will allow me to get out on the Lake with him, or another friend, to walk or snowshoe some day soon.
But I wonder where the ducks and swans have gone??
As always, thank you everyone for reading, and for all your love and support. It makes a huge difference.
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