Last year, I was in the middle of chemotherapy. The doctor was very concerned that I should keep my weight up. I never really thought about the issue. There were other, bigger things on my mind. My weight did keep constant during chemo (thanks to my attentive husband who took control of the dietary needs of the family), but I lost the best part of a stone, all told, during the course of the year. A stone I didn't need.
This year, I am chatting to a mother while we wait for our kids. She is from Korea, and there is a bit of a language barrier. She asks about my summer. She says "and I think you've enjoyed eating food in your own country". I hesitate. She hasn't just told me that she's noticed I've put on weight? Surely not. Is she making an ironic joke about British cuisine? Is she trying to empathise about what I most enjoyed during a trip home? I hesitate, and indicate that I haven't quite understood. She pats her hips and then points to mine, and with a smile, says "I can see you've been enjoying eating this summer -eating extra!"
Right. So it's visible then. That little bit round my middle.
I like to think of myself as pretty accepting of other cultures, but I really can't be bothered to try and research whether it is a compliment in Korea to be told your hips are full.
My "this year" bubble has burst with a resounding pop.
.
Showing posts with label chemo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label chemo. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Last year, this year
Last year, I drove 5-yo to school on her first day. I have photos of her getting ready to leave, the sky so dark that it could almost be night. The heavens opened, and it rained as if Noah had built his ark in the neighborhood. We were soaked.
This year, I walked 6-yo to school. She had been up for more than two hours, and ready for nearly one. Walking seemed a good way of using up twenty of the remaining minutes. It was a lovely morning, sunny but not yet hot. She told me she had a tummy ache, and I asked if it was really a pain, or if it felt like butterflies. She said, yes, butterflies, so I talked about nerves, and how they would go as soon as she got started at school. "Do you remember in the summer, I went to a conference, and I was reading something out in front of a big lot of people? Well, I had butterflies then, but they went away as soon as I started. It'll be like that when you get to school." She wondered why people say they have butterflies in their tummies, and not birds, and we agreed that birds would probably feel rather heavier.
Last year, I didn't know a soul at this school (she's at a different one to her brothers). If I'm honest, I didn't really want to know any. Getting to know new parents, new teachers, new children seemed just another exhausting thing to add to the exhausting list.
This year, what a pleasure to see familiar faces, to exchange a few sentences about the summer and add "we'll have to catch up". On the way home I passed a friend, out with her twin babies in their stroller, before the day got too hot. We talked, but only briefly, because the babies wanted to be on the move.
Last year, I was so pleased that the first day of school fell towards the end of the 3-week chemotherapy cycle. It seemed so important to take my daughter to school, though of course she could have gone with her daddy. He'd already been to the enrolment and open day. I had to drive. Twenty minutes there on foot, and twenty minutes back, would have been far too much.
This year, I was happy to walk, as I've put on quite a few pounds while on holiday, and I'm needing to lose weight. Needing to lose weight! Ah, that's a sign of life returning to normal, if there ever was one.
Last year, I wore a cap.
This year, one of the other mothers greeted me with "you've changed your hair". I was a bit flummoxed as to what to say, and ended up with "well, it's grown!". I was secretly rather pleased she didn't instantly remember the cap and the reason for it.
Last year, I had two chemo sessions to go. I didn't know the third would be the worst. Probably just as well. I was dreading starting on Tamoxifen, and getting used to the idea of being on a drug for years seemed a huge mental hurdle. Huge.
This year, I forgot to take the Tamoxifen tablet this morning, but that's just because we're out of routine and not properly unpacked, and my pill box isn't in its usual place. Being on a drug seems a tiny thing. I was lucky with the side effects. Lots of people are on long-term medication. It's a very safe drug. Been around for years. No big deal. Not any more.
Last year, my biggest fear (which I couldn't bring myself to write down in black and white - though I did try) was that I would lose myself. That was it. Whenever anyone talked about losing my hair, I'd hear a voice inside saying "and you might lose yourself". I'd lost little bits of my body, and the steroids during the first chemo session made me feel like I was losing my mind. I didn't seem to be doing much. If you take away body, mind, and role, it doesn't feel like much is left. I wondered if somehow the bit that is the essence of me would evaporate, and I'd never get it back.
This year, I look back and see that I did not lose myself. I am here. I am me. (Actually, I was all along.) I can even write about that.
And now it's time to go and pick 6-yo up. I wonder how her day has been.
.
This year, I walked 6-yo to school. She had been up for more than two hours, and ready for nearly one. Walking seemed a good way of using up twenty of the remaining minutes. It was a lovely morning, sunny but not yet hot. She told me she had a tummy ache, and I asked if it was really a pain, or if it felt like butterflies. She said, yes, butterflies, so I talked about nerves, and how they would go as soon as she got started at school. "Do you remember in the summer, I went to a conference, and I was reading something out in front of a big lot of people? Well, I had butterflies then, but they went away as soon as I started. It'll be like that when you get to school." She wondered why people say they have butterflies in their tummies, and not birds, and we agreed that birds would probably feel rather heavier.
Last year, I didn't know a soul at this school (she's at a different one to her brothers). If I'm honest, I didn't really want to know any. Getting to know new parents, new teachers, new children seemed just another exhausting thing to add to the exhausting list.
This year, what a pleasure to see familiar faces, to exchange a few sentences about the summer and add "we'll have to catch up". On the way home I passed a friend, out with her twin babies in their stroller, before the day got too hot. We talked, but only briefly, because the babies wanted to be on the move.
Last year, I was so pleased that the first day of school fell towards the end of the 3-week chemotherapy cycle. It seemed so important to take my daughter to school, though of course she could have gone with her daddy. He'd already been to the enrolment and open day. I had to drive. Twenty minutes there on foot, and twenty minutes back, would have been far too much.
This year, I was happy to walk, as I've put on quite a few pounds while on holiday, and I'm needing to lose weight. Needing to lose weight! Ah, that's a sign of life returning to normal, if there ever was one.
Last year, I wore a cap.
This year, one of the other mothers greeted me with "you've changed your hair". I was a bit flummoxed as to what to say, and ended up with "well, it's grown!". I was secretly rather pleased she didn't instantly remember the cap and the reason for it.
Last year, I had two chemo sessions to go. I didn't know the third would be the worst. Probably just as well. I was dreading starting on Tamoxifen, and getting used to the idea of being on a drug for years seemed a huge mental hurdle. Huge.
This year, I forgot to take the Tamoxifen tablet this morning, but that's just because we're out of routine and not properly unpacked, and my pill box isn't in its usual place. Being on a drug seems a tiny thing. I was lucky with the side effects. Lots of people are on long-term medication. It's a very safe drug. Been around for years. No big deal. Not any more.
Last year, my biggest fear (which I couldn't bring myself to write down in black and white - though I did try) was that I would lose myself. That was it. Whenever anyone talked about losing my hair, I'd hear a voice inside saying "and you might lose yourself". I'd lost little bits of my body, and the steroids during the first chemo session made me feel like I was losing my mind. I didn't seem to be doing much. If you take away body, mind, and role, it doesn't feel like much is left. I wondered if somehow the bit that is the essence of me would evaporate, and I'd never get it back.
This year, I look back and see that I did not lose myself. I am here. I am me. (Actually, I was all along.) I can even write about that.
And now it's time to go and pick 6-yo up. I wonder how her day has been.
.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Mrs Chemobrain Obama-head lives to fight another day
Monday morning last week was a low spot. At breakfast, I was reading 9-yo’s weekly Friday newsletter. I learned that he was to take to school a cardboard box covered in brown paper, with doors cut in the front to make it into a wardrobe, for a fun class activity about the book they’ve just finished (guess which book). I decided I had just enough time to cover the Cheerios box with a piece of brown paper, and set to. I had realized that the decision meant that 12-yo would be the teensiest weensiest bit late (middle school starts 15 minutes earlier than the lower school), but I thought punctuality should be sacrificed to wardrobe creation. 12-yo was getting more and more agitated, and finally revealed that he’d been given a nickname on the basis of his repeated late morning arrivals. If you get three tardies, you get detention. I pointed out that he can’t have had three, as he’d never had a detention, and I said I didn’t feel two tardies in a term was all that bad.
“I’m late the whole time”, he said. “It’s just that the teachers feel sorry for us because you’ve had cancer so they turn a blind eye.”
“Good. Well, tell them I’ve had a relapse. No, don’t. That’s awful. I’m teaching you to lie. No. Don’t tell them I’ve had a relapse. Tell them… Oh, just smile at them and hope for the best. It’s nearly the end of term.”
And with that, I bundled them out of the door, 9-yo flapping behind him a carrier bag containing the wardrobe, soggy with enthusiastic amounts of fresh glue.
It’s at times like this when I start self-flagellating, and hating chemobrain with a passion. I didn’t used to forget to read the Friday newsletter. I used to read it, and remember what was in it. I didn't used to get my children to school late all the time (well, actually, I did, but self-flagellation is no respecter of facts). Husband is very reassuring, of course, and tells me that I just have higher standards than lesser mortals like him, and that I should stop being so hard on myself. He’s right, and I am trying. Honest. But as you know, chemobrain lapses frustrate me, and the combination of the wardrobe malfunction along with the revelation of my firstborn's cruel and tormenting nickname, the result of parental incompetence, made Monday morning feel bad.
From Monday morning’s nadir, the week got better and better. First, I had coffee with a couple of friends. One of them had knitted me a lovely hat (that sounds so horrid, but it’s really nice), and wanted to take a photo of me in it for her blog. I had to whip off my cap to put it on, revealing my Obama cut. Both friends’ jaws dropped, and I was about to pass quickly over an embarrassing moment (“yes, I look pretty bad without hair, ha ha ha”), but I had misinterpreted their reaction. They were absolutely adamant that it was “too cute” and that I should definitely be brave and ditch the hats and caps altogether. I could tell from their faces that they weren’t just being kind in a “no, honestly, it really doesn’t make your bottom look big at all” way, but that they really meant it. One of them told me that when she’d lived in Chicago and worked in an art gallery, there was a very successful art dealer who had hair just like mine, and who looked fabulous all the time.
So there you are. One week I’m blogging about the miserable Obama doormat on my head, and the next week, I’m told I look like the trendiest art dealer in Chicago. Life, huh? So now I’m tossing up whether to keep my hair covered until it’s long enough to dye and style, or whether to be really gutsy and sport the trendy art dealer Obama look. What do you think?
Then, I made a curtain. I’ve never made a curtain before. In our guest room in the basement, there is an ugly window. It’s at ceiling level, and therefore useless as a window, even before someone painted it over. The paint is half peeled off, the space between the two panes is filthy, and it’s an eyesore. Every time we’ve had visitors, I’ve intended to make a curtain to put in front of it, and haven’t got around to it. Last week, the day before my parents-in-law arrived for Christmas, I finally did. I don’t have a sewing machine, so I had to stitch by hand, and it involved lots of chemobrain moments, like standing in the fabric shop trying to calculate how much material I needed, and feeling that the synapses were firing very slowly, and wanting to say “but the whole point of choosing out of your remnant box was so that you’d give me the whole piece for the price, and I wouldn’t have to do any calculations in public”.
It’s amazing how much satisfaction you can get out of making a curtain. I have now joined the ranks of those impressive-sounding people who say “oh, I just bought the fabric yesterday, and then I ran it up this afternoon, no, it didn’t take long at all, terribly easy, nothing to it, really very simple”. The curtain doesn’t draw, or anything clever like that. It just hangs there. It's 32" by 13". Here is a picture (and no, the burgundy woodwork wasn’t our choice).
So, my hair is a potential asset, I’ve made a curtain, and then I discovered that I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t read the Friday newsletter. Out of 18 children, guess how many took in a wardrobe. Go on. Guess.
ONE.
Ha! Turns out 9-yo was the only child to take in a wardrobe, which means that 17 parents (none of whom, as far as I know, have the excuse of chemobrain) either forgot to read the Friday newsletter, or read it and over the course of the week-end, forgot to make a wardrobe.
I don’t mean to sound smug, but… Oh alright then, I DO mean to sound smug. Let the self-flagellation cease.
Onwards and upwards. Mrs Chemobrain Obama-head lives to fight another day.
.
“I’m late the whole time”, he said. “It’s just that the teachers feel sorry for us because you’ve had cancer so they turn a blind eye.”
“Good. Well, tell them I’ve had a relapse. No, don’t. That’s awful. I’m teaching you to lie. No. Don’t tell them I’ve had a relapse. Tell them… Oh, just smile at them and hope for the best. It’s nearly the end of term.”
And with that, I bundled them out of the door, 9-yo flapping behind him a carrier bag containing the wardrobe, soggy with enthusiastic amounts of fresh glue.
It’s at times like this when I start self-flagellating, and hating chemobrain with a passion. I didn’t used to forget to read the Friday newsletter. I used to read it, and remember what was in it. I didn't used to get my children to school late all the time (well, actually, I did, but self-flagellation is no respecter of facts). Husband is very reassuring, of course, and tells me that I just have higher standards than lesser mortals like him, and that I should stop being so hard on myself. He’s right, and I am trying. Honest. But as you know, chemobrain lapses frustrate me, and the combination of the wardrobe malfunction along with the revelation of my firstborn's cruel and tormenting nickname, the result of parental incompetence, made Monday morning feel bad.
From Monday morning’s nadir, the week got better and better. First, I had coffee with a couple of friends. One of them had knitted me a lovely hat (that sounds so horrid, but it’s really nice), and wanted to take a photo of me in it for her blog. I had to whip off my cap to put it on, revealing my Obama cut. Both friends’ jaws dropped, and I was about to pass quickly over an embarrassing moment (“yes, I look pretty bad without hair, ha ha ha”), but I had misinterpreted their reaction. They were absolutely adamant that it was “too cute” and that I should definitely be brave and ditch the hats and caps altogether. I could tell from their faces that they weren’t just being kind in a “no, honestly, it really doesn’t make your bottom look big at all” way, but that they really meant it. One of them told me that when she’d lived in Chicago and worked in an art gallery, there was a very successful art dealer who had hair just like mine, and who looked fabulous all the time.
So there you are. One week I’m blogging about the miserable Obama doormat on my head, and the next week, I’m told I look like the trendiest art dealer in Chicago. Life, huh? So now I’m tossing up whether to keep my hair covered until it’s long enough to dye and style, or whether to be really gutsy and sport the trendy art dealer Obama look. What do you think?
Then, I made a curtain. I’ve never made a curtain before. In our guest room in the basement, there is an ugly window. It’s at ceiling level, and therefore useless as a window, even before someone painted it over. The paint is half peeled off, the space between the two panes is filthy, and it’s an eyesore. Every time we’ve had visitors, I’ve intended to make a curtain to put in front of it, and haven’t got around to it. Last week, the day before my parents-in-law arrived for Christmas, I finally did. I don’t have a sewing machine, so I had to stitch by hand, and it involved lots of chemobrain moments, like standing in the fabric shop trying to calculate how much material I needed, and feeling that the synapses were firing very slowly, and wanting to say “but the whole point of choosing out of your remnant box was so that you’d give me the whole piece for the price, and I wouldn’t have to do any calculations in public”.
It’s amazing how much satisfaction you can get out of making a curtain. I have now joined the ranks of those impressive-sounding people who say “oh, I just bought the fabric yesterday, and then I ran it up this afternoon, no, it didn’t take long at all, terribly easy, nothing to it, really very simple”. The curtain doesn’t draw, or anything clever like that. It just hangs there. It's 32" by 13". Here is a picture (and no, the burgundy woodwork wasn’t our choice).
So, my hair is a potential asset, I’ve made a curtain, and then I discovered that I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t read the Friday newsletter. Out of 18 children, guess how many took in a wardrobe. Go on. Guess.
ONE.
Ha! Turns out 9-yo was the only child to take in a wardrobe, which means that 17 parents (none of whom, as far as I know, have the excuse of chemobrain) either forgot to read the Friday newsletter, or read it and over the course of the week-end, forgot to make a wardrobe.
I don’t mean to sound smug, but… Oh alright then, I DO mean to sound smug. Let the self-flagellation cease.
Onwards and upwards. Mrs Chemobrain Obama-head lives to fight another day.
.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Hair
Well, the good news after my previous post is that apparently chemobrain isn’t always permanent. It might only be with me for a year or so. Personally, my guess is that people just get very good at dealing with it, so that when a year has gone by, and a research scientist asks them if it has got better, they say “yes” and don’t mention that their house is littered with post-it notes of things to remember, and that they have stopped using sentences containing those long words that are liable to fall into that tricky gap between brain and lips. And the ones who don’t say “yes” say “chemobrain? What’s chemobrain? No, we definitely didn’t discuss it at my last appointment.“ Which could lead me into a whole reflection about the validity of empirical scientific research, but stay with me, because I’m not going down that path. No, today I’m talking HAIR.
The good news about hair is that it DOES grow back. Boobs - no, brain cells – maybe, hair – definitely yes. Hurrah for hair. And mine has started. But oooow, it is soooo sloooow. Think how patient you have to be to grow out a fringe or layers. Then imagine that your fringe is starting from zero, and that actually, your whole mop is starting from zero. We’re talking a loooong tiiiime.
They do warn you that it might grow back different to how it has been, but that over time, it will revert. Over time? How much time? What if the forces of reversion encounter the forces of aging moving in the opposite direction? Which is what might well happen in my case. For my hair (and this was a dark fear of mine) is growing in grey. It started off when I was a child as white blond, and has just got darker gradually throughout my life. From blond in my childhood, through fair in my 20s, through mid brown in my 30s, it had got as far as dark brown with a little grey in it. The half inch or so that I now have is black and grey together, but probably more grey than black. Like the brain cells, it’s as if chemo just skipped my body along a couple of decades. I hate that. By the time my hair has decided to revert to brown, it will be time for it to be grey anyway. I used to dye my hair to cover up the grey in a rather lackadaisical fashion, every now and again picking up a colour from Boots and seeing what it came out as. I foresee a future where I will have to be much more organized, pick a colour, stick with it, and get it done professionally every few weeks. Bother.
And here’s a cautionary tale. Be careful what you wish for. I’ve always had very fine hair (we thin-haired people use that word ‘fine’). I’ve always hated that, so I hoped that it might grow back a bit thicker, and I’d noticed that the grey hairs I did have were a bit thicker than their brown friends, so I thought it was a possibility. Well, it is growing back thicker, and guess what. I don't like it. It’s like having a doormat on my head. What happened to my lovely flyaway wispy fine stuff? I want to be ME again. ME, with the hair I complain about.
Last night, we were watching the last few minutes of Oprah at the White House, and I said to Husband “I look like Obama”. He is a patient man, and with a slightly puzzled expression, he replied “Erm, I don’t think you do look very like him”. “His hair! His hair!” I explained, “I have Obama’s hair!” Husband, who is as honest as he is patient, had to confess that yes, I do have Obama’s hair.
What’s a girl to do? Well, apart from sticking with the hats for a while, which I’ve become rather fond of actually, I’ve decided that I’m going to hope that an Obama cut becomes 2010’s top look for women. I mean, he’s got himself elected to the most powerful job in the world, he’s won the Nobel peace prize – surely it can only be a matter of time before his hairstyle catches on? Galloping quickly through the decades, we’ve had the Purdey cut (remember that one?), the Diana cut, the Rachel cut. Surely the time is ripe for the Obama cut?
Meanwhile, looking for a voice of sanity in a mad world, I was talking to 5-yo on the subject. “I’m a bit sad about my hair”, I said. “It’s not growing back the same as it used to be.” She thought about it for a few seconds, and replied “It’s ok”. Then thought a bit longer and repeated “It’s ok”.
I didn’t know whether she meant the hair was ok, or whether it was ok to be sad, but I found it comforting anyway. They know a thing or two about life, do 5 year olds.
“And,” she added, “now you match Daddy!”
.
The good news about hair is that it DOES grow back. Boobs - no, brain cells – maybe, hair – definitely yes. Hurrah for hair. And mine has started. But oooow, it is soooo sloooow. Think how patient you have to be to grow out a fringe or layers. Then imagine that your fringe is starting from zero, and that actually, your whole mop is starting from zero. We’re talking a loooong tiiiime.
They do warn you that it might grow back different to how it has been, but that over time, it will revert. Over time? How much time? What if the forces of reversion encounter the forces of aging moving in the opposite direction? Which is what might well happen in my case. For my hair (and this was a dark fear of mine) is growing in grey. It started off when I was a child as white blond, and has just got darker gradually throughout my life. From blond in my childhood, through fair in my 20s, through mid brown in my 30s, it had got as far as dark brown with a little grey in it. The half inch or so that I now have is black and grey together, but probably more grey than black. Like the brain cells, it’s as if chemo just skipped my body along a couple of decades. I hate that. By the time my hair has decided to revert to brown, it will be time for it to be grey anyway. I used to dye my hair to cover up the grey in a rather lackadaisical fashion, every now and again picking up a colour from Boots and seeing what it came out as. I foresee a future where I will have to be much more organized, pick a colour, stick with it, and get it done professionally every few weeks. Bother.
And here’s a cautionary tale. Be careful what you wish for. I’ve always had very fine hair (we thin-haired people use that word ‘fine’). I’ve always hated that, so I hoped that it might grow back a bit thicker, and I’d noticed that the grey hairs I did have were a bit thicker than their brown friends, so I thought it was a possibility. Well, it is growing back thicker, and guess what. I don't like it. It’s like having a doormat on my head. What happened to my lovely flyaway wispy fine stuff? I want to be ME again. ME, with the hair I complain about.
Last night, we were watching the last few minutes of Oprah at the White House, and I said to Husband “I look like Obama”. He is a patient man, and with a slightly puzzled expression, he replied “Erm, I don’t think you do look very like him”. “His hair! His hair!” I explained, “I have Obama’s hair!” Husband, who is as honest as he is patient, had to confess that yes, I do have Obama’s hair.
What’s a girl to do? Well, apart from sticking with the hats for a while, which I’ve become rather fond of actually, I’ve decided that I’m going to hope that an Obama cut becomes 2010’s top look for women. I mean, he’s got himself elected to the most powerful job in the world, he’s won the Nobel peace prize – surely it can only be a matter of time before his hairstyle catches on? Galloping quickly through the decades, we’ve had the Purdey cut (remember that one?), the Diana cut, the Rachel cut. Surely the time is ripe for the Obama cut?
Meanwhile, looking for a voice of sanity in a mad world, I was talking to 5-yo on the subject. “I’m a bit sad about my hair”, I said. “It’s not growing back the same as it used to be.” She thought about it for a few seconds, and replied “It’s ok”. Then thought a bit longer and repeated “It’s ok”.
I didn’t know whether she meant the hair was ok, or whether it was ok to be sad, but I found it comforting anyway. They know a thing or two about life, do 5 year olds.
“And,” she added, “now you match Daddy!”
.
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