7th day of radiation

Acupuhla things are happening now: throat is getting scratchy and makes gulping water seem like swallowing a fish whole (now sipping genteel-like), and energy levels are down (disrupting favorite pastime, shopping). Speaking of which, preposterousness of shopping while stickers are all over one's chest is an unprecedented side effect. Anything cut lower than my chin is no good for me. Every single nice top is cut down to the belly button. Why is the mall trying so desperately to turn everyone into a hoochie? Anyways, it wasn't a total waste of time, as I spotted this ridiculously cute BCBG, please, the picture doesn't do it justice. Invite me to a lantern-lit lagoon-side cocktail party so I have a reason to spend money I don't have on this.

Mondo Rad

First radiation treatment today took 40 minutes -- apart from the time I hung out with Scruffy and Lucky (you can see them on the ambassador page). We were chillin in the waiting room where Lucky made himself comfortable on my lap while a musician played vaguely spiritual pieces on acoustic guitar. Not only that, but while chatting with the Paws & Hearts founder, I was slightly embarassed to discover he was my patient at Lenscrafters. Awkwardness averted as the tech stepped in to guide me to the treatment room.

More like treatment cave, I mean it's huge, about 20 x 20, and it has to be because it houses this enormous machine. It wasn't the four-arm version as mentioned in Wilbur's post; mine had one arm which travels 360 degrees circumferentially around the treatment table. Lying comfortably with my neck tilted back, I gazed at the starlight decoration on the ceiling as the machine hummed hypnotically beside me. With the arm rotated directly above me, little bidirectional skewers held in the glass panel shifted and morphed as the techs analyzed my PET image superimposed over my body. Those moving pieces actually help delineate the proper treatment field, and through them a light beamed down a polygon that the tech markered on my chest.

An x-ray was taken. The arm rotated behind/below me and a flat digital radiography panel was lowered down thisclose from my face. Very cool.

The treatment proper was so fast, 30 seconds each from the back and the front. The metallic hum is drowned out by a high pitched beep, and a flashing red light -- otherwise known as sure signs of danger. That got my heart pounding.

All done, I slathered on some aloe ointment and went on my merry way.

Sorry for the graphic photo ... :{ but anyways you can see my thyroid is directly in the field (tho they have kindly avoided my larynx) as well as upper lung. I have to keep those stickers on. Lovely -- summer is just the time to invest in crewnecks.

Chinese domestic bliss

While again underemployed, look what I did today!

Wrapped my own 水饺 dumplings, I did :)

Ode to the most superficial loss

.:.:. Chemo pattern baldness

I discovered something cool about chemo+alopecia. It's actually trackable by looking how the diameter of the follicle narrows and then recovers. The hair shaft gets thin as chemo causes apoptosis.

You can see my hair is going to continue to fall out; it's just a matter of time. Thank goodness I started out with relatively lots of hair. So as the rest of the damaged follicles gradually shed over the next 3-6 months, I'll still have new hair growing in.

I hypothesize that I lost less hair because of my hair type (or because I have less p53 vs Caucasians). My hair lives on, thanks to my thick and coarse Asian follicle -- exactly the type I used to curse at in the mirror. Its stubbornness used to mortify me that it would kink up in some places, never hold a curl, be so straight it would drag down and hang flat and lifeless. How could I miss committing an hour a day washing, drying, burning, bushwacking, dousing with product, just so it could disobey and cause me fury? Now that it's gone, all I can remember is the fun times. If only I had the chance for one last chignon! Obviously I still have hair, so the ode is moot. So much for my sad story. Did you know that 80% of chemo patients regard hair loss as the most distressing side effect?

Now with a boyish cut, it must be styled every day (no more throwing it into a ponytail). It's just funny when it sticks up in the morning. I baby my hair with sulfate-free shampoo, forgoing conditioner in an attempt for volume, letting it dry naturally which means my cowlick sticks up more than ever. No comb-overs as of yet, but my scalp is threatening to flash in public, possibly blinding some innocent bystanders with its whiteness. But hey, I even found a mole right where my hair parts on the top of my head, a good argument for a hat habit, or at least reversing the part once in a while. One male patient even commiserated with me by sharing how Propecia has worked wonders for his pate (and his prostate). If nothing else, I'm comforted by the knowledge that my lashes are twice as long as ever (thanks, Brooke Shields). Hm ... next use, latanoprost on my head?

PS Ink

I got my first tat. Actually, there's three.

Just three dots ... reminds me of Phoebe in Friends "i got the whole world". Yea, i guess i got a galaxy!

Stress Test

Upon arrival at the radi-onco's office Tuesday morning, I was presented a short stress survey. Pretty straight-forward, on a scale of 1 to 10, check yes or no to various factors like finances, childcare, self image, etc. Nothing like a good 32 factors blaring at you that you could start neurosing over. Considering mama had driven in that morning exclusively to "ask the doctor all of the possible questions" and Wilbur had prepared a laundry list of concerns (agitated by the ir/relevant forums that he spends more time with than with me), maybe there was more stress than I cared to realize. Could be tired, having spent the last Thurs-Sun in class, Mon at work (a bizarre day including devious office politics where there are plots to overthrow the current managers, a patient who demanded to see the "real" optometrist, and endless multifocal contact fits plus one follow up whose records were lost ... from 5 days ago (o Lenscrafter$, never ceases to amaze)).

Firmly, I circled "4" on the stress scale. Granted, I have a rather logarithmic scale, where

• 1 is a catatonic state - "Reality is the leading cause of stress for those in touch with it."
• 5 is kind of like playing modern warfare on a venti vanilla doubleshot
• 7 is simultaneous wedding planning, full time work, and getting in a car accident - "There cannot be a stressful crisis next week. My schedule is already full."
• 10 stress is simultaneous laughing, crying, and eating - "when you wake up screaming and you realize you haven't fallen asleep yet."

There was an undercurrent of dread and paranoia while expecting the PET results. What worried me was my right neck still felt swollen and left armpit tender to the touch, so I wondered if possibly the chemo didn't work. My hair was continuing to fall out (which it will, see later post), skin is patchy, and nails are so brittle - otherwise typical signs of stress.

Later on, Wilbur joked that I must have answered "1" on the survey, definitely a disconnect with how I feel and how the person closest to me perceives me. I mean, sure, I can keep my stress under control, there's no need to compound the situation by freaking out. But, as a patient, I find it my responsibility to set the tone for how others act around me. Is this also a reaction to the stress from people around me? Probably, and while this is the most frustrating to others when they worry and assume I'm lackadaisical, part of it is finding that their worry relieves me of my urgency to worry. I'm relegating my worry to others so I have time for more stuff. Like modern warfare.

First Friday sans chemo

Granted, the momentous day was celebrated by being chained to a chair through eight hours of continuing education, but all I could think of was I'm f r e e!

Monday

Poked twice in the right arm, twice in the left arm, once on left hand before IV successfully placed. Nurse: "Your veins are so deep, I was afraid I stuck the needle all the way through your arm!"

Sunday

On Easter Sunday, we were able to witness testimony from a girl newly baptized. It was about one year ago that I was baptized, and I came to realize how amazing the way life has unfolded since then. Because I have God, faith, community. Because I have peace and purpose. Because of my angels, family and friends, sent to protect and comfort. Because I can feel so much joy despite that otherwise dreadful fact. Obviously after my public proffering of faith came the diagnosis, but it struck me that I was just in time.

Saturday

What a blessing this weekend was. This was our first official date after chemo, and we also made up our annual D-land pilgrimage. Our history of memorable Disneyland moments notwithstanding (you may have heard tales of when I broke my arm, of when we scored a pair of special fastpass cards, of when I fell in some kid's vomit --> not all on the same day), our experience at Disney wasn't complete without trying the giant (it must have been 2 lbs) turkey leg for the first ... and last ... time.
As we stood in the interminable line for Indiana Jones, the cute couple behind us was gifted some fast pass by a kind stranger. For a second, Wilbur and I exchanged a look that said 'We used to be that couple!' It kind of made me wonder if we've been passed over by fortune and chance, like we somehow fell out of cosmic (Disney) favor. But decidedly enough, we've been blessed through and through and can spare to share the wealth with those other moony-eyed lovebirds.